


Thursday's Child

by Brighid45



Series: Treatment [2]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 12:55:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2270538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brighid45/pseuds/Brighid45
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Second story in the Treatment series. House is out of Mayfield, but has he found healing? AU to the canon storyline after the S5 series finale.  Now with revised and expanded chapters. Angst, drama, OC characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Doctor Gregory House and other canon characters featured in this work of fiction belong to NBC/Universal and David Shore. Original characters are my creation. I make no money from writing these stories, it’s done for pure enjoyment. All literary passages, quotes and song lyrics are used without permission; I do not own them or make money from using them.

_“You don’t ask people with knives in their stomachs what would make them happy; happiness is no longer the point. It’s all about survival; it’s all about whether you pull the knife out and bleed to death or keep it in.”_

_—         Nick Hornby,_ How to Be Good

_October 29th_

The last time Greg shopped at a mall, hair bands were hot and his old Malibu had just clocked one hundred thousand miles—in other words, ages ago. He detests huge temples to consumerism. Most of them suck because they're too expensive, too crowded, too crass. He's not into the latest noxious scent, overpriced kiosk cell phones and jewelry, gargantuan cinnamon rolls or food court meals contaminated with bacteria and perfume from the handler's unwashed piddies, hordes of narcissistic teenagers dressed in their 'I'm so unique' uniforms of the latest fashion, or any of the other boring, useless details of mall culture.

“I’m well aware you hate shopping,” Wilson says when Greg confronts him with this knowledge. “I know you don’t want to go with me. But you’ve forced the issue. You’ve been living off takeout and spent all your waking hours in front of either the computer or the tv. Cuddy’s starting to think you’re a figment of her imagination, and Foreman’s making plans for a coup.” He pinches the bridge of his brow and assumes a pained look. “You need to get out. This is a baby step, but you have to take it.”

After much coercion, threats, and a couple of first-class bribes, Greg agrees to accompany his friend on a mundane errand. Thankfully, Wilson doesn't go to Quaker Bridge, Oxford Valley or even the Flemington outlets, at least not on a regular basis; he likes a local place, the Princeton Shopping Center. It's a bit more pleasant aesthetically than your average pile of big-box and homegrown businesses . . . Okay, that’s a total lie, it’s a pile of shit like all older strip malls are. From his vantage point he can see numerous examples of advanced age: water leaks, broken tiles, not to mention scuffed and chipped paint here and there. But at least the benches are relatively comfortable, and there are plenty of them.

So Greg sits outside Kitchen Kapers while he waits for Wilson, and to keep himself from utter boredom, he diagnoses the passersby. There are plenty to choose from. It's Friday afternoon and everyone's out to get last-minute goodies for Halloween parties and trick-or-treaters.

_Obese . . . wrist splint . . . shifts bags from one hand to the other . . . hypothyroid with carpal tunnel damage, no zebras there. Jesus, Wilson—how long does it take to buy a jack-o-lantern cookie cutter? Bet you're stuck on whether to get another coffee-bean grinder. You probably want to grind the clerk's beans, haha, nice euphemism . . . Stiff neck and shoulders, recent weight loss . . . where do all these ugly middle-aged women come from? They all look like they’re constipated . . . She’s probably a victim of polymyalgia rheumatica, otherwise known as 'gettin' old sucks donkey dicks'. Bet her c-reactive protein levels are through the roof . . . Who knew so many decrepit people could move around enough to shop?_

A mother with her young daughter enter a pediatric dentistry a few doors down. Greg frowns and stares at the girl. She looks to be around five or so, but of far more interest is the fact that she has a slight humpback with just-noticeable scoliosis. He gets up and limps to a bench in front of the dentistry but doesn't sit, and watches as the girl's mother speaks with the receptionist. After a moment he goes inside the office. The mother is now settled into a chair, a two-year-old copy of _US_ magazine in hand; her kid wanders over to a corner full of cheap plastic toys. Mom glances up as Greg looms over her. "I'd like to examine your daughter," he says. Her eyes widen.

"What?"

"Your rug rat--I want to take a look at her," he says, impatient with the confusion and incipient alarm he sees in her expression. "She's got curvature of the spine and a humpback. Does she have scars on her knees and elbows?"

"Are—are you with the dentist's office?" the mother asks. She clutches the magazine in her hands. He can just make out Angelina Jolie's impressive bosom between her fingers.

"Yeah, it's an extra service with the sugar-free lollipop," he says, and turns to the girl, who stands amid the toys with a pink iPod in hand, and stares at him with wide eyes. “Hey,” he says, and hopes he sounds friendly. “I’d like to take a look at your hands and then your elbows.”

"You leave my daughter alone!" The mother stands up, indignant now. "Who the hell are you? You don't work here!"

Greg sends her a glare. "I'm a doctor," he snaps. "At least I was, until my license was suspended. But I'm getting it back after my surgery next week. They're implanting another head so I'll have a backup career as a sideshow exhibit. I can give you the information if you're interested so your own kid can have it done. Oh wait, she's already a freak."

The mother goes straight for the receptionist's window. He figures he's got about a minute to get to the girl and find the signs he's fairly sure are there. He turns back to the child.

"I just want to look at your hands and elbows. Bet you can bend your fingers the wrong way," he says, and limps toward the little figure. He's two steps away when he reaches out to touch her wrist. The girl gives a loud shriek, hurls her iPod at him and runs like a rabbit. He ducks the phone and is blindsided by two hundred pounds of angry adult male.

"Fuckin' pervert!" Hands encircle Greg’s throat, slam his head into the floor. "Goin' after a kid in public! You goddamn asshole!"

 _Right--should have waited until I got her home,_ he says, or tries to, but the words are stuck in his throat, quite literally; his vision goes grey and there is a roaring sound in his head, along with a sharp pain. He tries to push the guy off but darkness takes him down, down—

The horrendous pressure on his throat and chest is released and he gasps for air. His head throbs with his heartbeat, hard stabs with each thump. If his leg could speak it would shriek in agony at the top of its lungs. He's concussed enough to find the idea of a leg with lungs to be humorous.

"What the _hell_ are you—what do you—he's—he’s not a child molester!" he hears Wilson yell. His friend's voice shakes with fury and something else. "Dammit, get _off_ him . . ." Words fade as a black tide rolls over Greg, thick and stifling. His last thought is _Everything fits . . . if I can just . . ._

He comes to and finds he lies on something flat and hard with cold metal around his wrists—handcuffs, he knows the feel of them all too well. He tries to open his eyes and groans as pain flashes through his head, but after a few moments he manages it. A cop stands over him, big and burly and very pissed off, if his red face and angry glare are anything to go by. The sight makes Greg feel strange—scared, yeah, but more than that, worse somehow. The knowledge intrigues him in a distant sort of way, but he’s a little too preoccupied to follow up on it at the moment.

"Okay asshole, just what the _fuck_ were you trying to do?" the cop asks. His voice is low and soft. Greg swallows on a dry throat. It's as if someone's given him a shot of adrenaline or speed. Just the sound of that quiet, angry voice makes his anxiety jump sharply. His breathing is shallow, heart races, his skin's clammy, he wants to run like hell. He tries to speak but his throat is too bruised and dry. He coughs and the world spins and wavers, then gradually rights itself.

"The girl says you told her you wanted to touch her hands," the cop says. "Why did you ask her to do that, as if I didn't know?"

 _Actually I wanted to check her elbows, but start small and build,_ he thinks. He raises his cuffed hands to indicate he needs something to write with. The cop looks at him for a long moment, then reaches around to a cluttered desk and picks up a pencil and a notepad. Greg takes them when they're offered and writes _EDS_ in shaky print. The cop squints at the letters.

"What's that mean?" he says. Greg writes _ask wilson._ It takes him forever; the fear within rises like a tide, slow but relentless. He manages to finish and hands the pad to the cop.

"Wilson's the guy who came in with you?" Greg manages a nod and immediately regrets it as pain and nausea flood him. "He's talking to the mother right now, trying to convince her not to press charges. He wants you taken to the hospital." The cop peers down at him. "You look like shit."

 _I've looked a lot worse_ , Greg thinks, and suddenly sees John House loom over him with a belt. Without warning the fear slams into him full force, raises him right off the stretcher, his back arched as he tries to get up and escape.

"Hey," the cop says, and he sounds worried. "Hey, are you having a seizure or something—"

"House, it’s okay. It's me." Wilson rests his hand on Greg's shoulder. Greg flinches at the contact and his head tries even harder to explode. He takes a shuddering breath and tries to focus on what Wilson says. "It's okay, the mom isn't pressing charges. I called Cuddy, she's sending an ambulance."

"He wrote something, said to give it to you," the cop says. There is a rustle of paper, a moment's silence.

"A _diagnosis_? That's what this is all about?" Wilson sighs a little. " _Shit._ Yeah, okay. I'll tell the mom."

Wilson's about to leave, Greg knows it. It amplifies the anxiety past all endurance. He reaches out with both hands and tries to catch the other man's arm. His head lights up with agony but he doesn't care.

"Can we _please_ take the damn cuffs off?" Wilson says. He is furious, but still polite— _typical. The man is a total doormat,_ the cold, rational part of Greg’s mind thinks. The terror recedes just a little as the bracelets are unlocked and removed. Wilson takes Greg's hands in his, examines them with care. His touch holds reassurance. "I won’t go anywhere," his friend says. "Lie still, I'm not sure how much damage that guy did to you beyond trying to cave in your head and giving you a bruised hyoid. The ambulance will be here in a few minutes."

The next few hours are a confused mess of sensations, snapshots taken between periods of empty lethargy and grating, relentless pain. Greg finds he slips in and out of consciousness, not a good sign. When the EMTs load him into the ambulance they pester him to stay awake, which increases his misery threefold, if that’s even possible. He's hauled off to the hospital, his clothes replaced by one of those damn open-backed gowns he cannot stand. He is poked, prodded, measured, imaged, hooked up to an IV. They give him something to make him relax, but the pain meds don’t even make a dent in the endless shrill pain his leg and throat and head cause. Eventually however, his muscles lose tension bit by bit; fiber by fiber is what it feels like, but he’ll take it. He endures a jagged, rusty slide into sleep, and welcomes the darkness when it finally steals over him. _Wonder if Wilson got his cookie cutter_ is his last conscious thought.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sarah sat in the lobby, sipped her cold tea, and watched the waterfall fountain as she replayed the events of the day. After a terse call from Jim, gone to voicemail because she'd been in a session, she'd managed to work out a more-or-less satisfactory reschedule of plans with Nolan, called Gene to update him on current events, hurried home to pack a bag and headed out. The drive down had been a nightmare of rush hour traffic. She'd navigated unfamiliar highways in the dark and done her best not to get lost; the last time she'd visited Princeton she'd ended up in Flemington. _Well, at least I had a good breakfast there._ She smiled a little at the memory and set the tea aside as elevator doors opened and Jim appeared, headed her way. He looked tired, his shirtsleeves rolled up and tie slightly askew, his coat draped over his shoulder, briefcase tucked under his arm--the sartorial equivalent of chaos, at least for him.

"Thanks for coming," he said as he sat down next to her. "I'm . . . I--I know House isn't your patient now, but . . . I'm sorry you-you had to drive down so late."

She leaned in and kissed his cheek. "Of course I came," she said. "How are you? How's House?"

"I'm . . . I’m okay," he said, but she understood this was a standard disclaimer and not truthful. The shadows under his eyes, the deep line between his brows, the scatter-shot speech; they were all signs she knew well from past experience. He was beside himself with worry. "House is . . . they've got him on mild sedation, it's—it’s not safe to risk more because he's sustained a concussion and possibly another head injury. He—he had a temporal bone fracture a while back . . .” Wilson looked uncomfortable for a moment. “We're waiting for labs and MRI results to come in. He had a panic attack or something, after . . . I've—I've never seen him . . . He was so . . ." He drew in a breath, ducked his head. Sarah said nothing; she knew he wasn't done. "He's not okay, let’s—let’s just leave it at that for now," he said at last.

"All right," Sarah said. "We’ll find out what's wrong and go from there."

"How long can you stay?" Jim glanced at her stale tea. "We can hit the diner down the street, you must be starving."

"Sounds good." She _was_ hungry; she'd snagged a cafeteria sandwich before she left work, but that was hours ago. "I took a week's worth of personal days. Darryl wasn't happy about it, but my workload's covered so he let me have the time off."

"You can stay at my place," Jim said. "Is Gene coming down for the weekend?"

"He's got a consult in Connecticut Saturday morning but for now at least, he’s planning to join us afterward." Sarah took Jim's hand in hers. "We'll help in any way we can, you know that."

"I know." He gave her his crooked smile. "Come on, let's get something to eat."

Over dinner she did her best to get him to relax and met with partial success. She deliberately kept the conversation away from the matter at hand and steered it toward shop talk. She knew Jim loved to hear the latest gossip about old friends and colleagues. She asked for a cheesesteak the way he liked it—sauce, fried onions and provolone—with a side of fries, and got him to eat a few bites along with the salad he’d ordered. When he was anxious he didn't take care of himself, a character trait she'd discovered during their college days together. Actually it was a bit like old times, a late-night meal and each other's company . . . until she looked into those dark eyes and saw the anxiety there, behind the humor and affection.

Why don't I stay with Greg tonight?" she said on the way back to the hospital. "You're wiped out, you need some sleep."

"Are—are you sure? You’ve got GPS so you can find your way to my place?" Jim glanced at her. The fact that his protest was less than strenuous told her how truly exhausted he was. The man had an enabling-nurturer complex a mile deep, amongst other things.

"Yes and yes," she said. "I'll keep an eye on him. If anything happens you know I'll call you right away."

"If you're sure . . . I'll give ICU a heads-up."

"Okay, thanks." She turned to face him as they pulled up at the entrance. "Telling you not to worry is pointless, but he'll be well taken care of. He's in the best place, you know he is."

"I know." Jim hesitated. "House told me he—he fired you." He fidgeted. “I’m sorry you got dragged into this mess—“

“You asked me to help, and I gave it my best shot. You're worried about how he'll react when he sees me," she said. Jim looked resigned.

"He tends to hold onto his opinions," he said. Sarah snorted.

"That’s an understatement. The man should have 'Wells-Lamont' branded on his backside." She chuckled at Jim's puzzled expression. "Old farm kid injoke. It just means he's tough. And stubborn." She put a hand on his arm. "Go home. I'll deal with House." She offered him a smile. "Bring some doughnuts and tea for breakfast, okay? Make mine two chocolate bavarian creams. I'll let you eat the first one if you don't forget the lemon wedges for my cuppa."

Jim gave a half-laugh, half-sigh and enveloped her in a gentle one-armed hug. "You always did know the right thing to say," he said softly. She could feel him tremble a little. "Take good care of him. And yourself too."

"I'll do my best." She rubbed his back, an attempt to offer comfort. "We'll know more in the morning. Head on home and get some sleep now. I'll see you later."

He let her go. She climbed out and saw him with phone in hand, probably to talk with the on-call doctor or the charge nurse in Intensive Care. Afterward he drove off slowly, his car illuminated only by the streetlamps along the way. Sarah watched him for a moment, then turned to the elevators and began her journey to the ICU.

To her surprise, someone already stood watch in Greg's room--a woman with striking features and pale blue eyes. She regarded Sarah with undisguised suspicion, As she rose from the visitor's chair pulled up next to the bed, she let go of the patient’s hand. Her suit—Ann Taylor, Sarah noted with a bit of professional envy--was wrinkled, blouse pulled out slightly at the waist; atop the patient's tray table, an almost-empty bottle of green tea sat beside a water pitcher and a plastic cup filled with half-melted ice chips. Obviously she'd been camped there for some time.

 _This has to be Cuddy_. Jim had talked about her enough to make her recognizable. Sarah gave the patient a quick glance. Greg was asleep, the lights in the room dimmed somewhat but still bright enough to reveal deep purple bruises on his throat. The marks were finger-shaped. His face was damaged as well, his right cheek and eye swollen. Beyond the fresh injuries, he did not look well. He’d lost weight, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

"If you're the latest entry in his black book, he's out of commission tonight." The woman's tone was acerbic, though she spoke softly. Sarah fought the urge to offer a caustic reply. _Jeez, lady. You really think some hooker would come all the way up here to. . . well, it is Greg after all. God knows what havoc he's capable of, even in this state._

"I'm not a call girl," she said, her tone neutral. "The next worst thing, actually. I'm Sarah Goldman. I worked with Greg for several months during his stay at Mayfield. Doctor Wilson might have mentioned I was coming."

The change in the woman's expression was priceless. She seemed to deflate as a flush stained her cheeks. "Oh," she said. "I'm—I'm sorry, yes, Wilson did mention—" She took a breath. "Lisa Cuddy, Dean of Medicine."

"Nice to meet you, Doctor Cuddy. Jim talks about you quite a bit. All good," Sarah said, and smiled a little as Cuddy's blush deepened. "How's the patient?"

"Let's step outside," Cuddy said, and led Sarah from the room. Once they were in the hall she spoke in a clipped, no-nonsense style. Sarah wondered if the woman knew or even cared that she looked the worse for wear. "Concussion with possible further head injury, bruising on his throat, face, torso and limbs, a damaged ligament in his right knee, elevated blood pressure. He was tackled by some idiot who thought he was a _pedophile_." The indignation in Cuddy's voice made Sarah's ears perk up.

"’Pedophile?’" She kept her tone one of mild inquiry.

"Apparently House saw some little girl in the mall with what might be undiagnosed Ehlers-Danlos syndrome. I don't know all the details yet but from what the cop told Wilson, House asked the girl if he could examine her. He probably planned to check for scars," Cuddy added at Sarah's blank look. "It's an extremely rare disease, not likely the kid's pediatrician would have caught it."

"I see," Sarah said, and set the information aside to study later. "Guess we'll find out more when our guy wakes up." She deliberately used a term to indicate some familiarity, just to see what sort of reaction she'd get. To her amusement Cuddy's polite demeanor acquired a delicate rime of frost.

"Guess we will," Cuddy said. Her blue eyes glittered. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Doctor Goldman?"

"Yes. Go home," Sarah said. "I'll stay with Greg tonight. Jim said you've been run off your feet since this happened. He also mentioned you've got a baby to care for." She saw the doubt in Cuddy's expression. "I'll call you if anything happens, probably even before Jim does. You have my promise."

"He's no longer your patient," Cuddy said flatly. "He got rid of you. Why do you care about him?"

Sarah glanced at the silent figure just visible through the open blinds. "He's worth it," she said. "And I don't give up easily. He needs help." She sent Cuddy a direct look. "My husband feels the same way. He's Greg's pain management doctor, Gene Goldman."

"Ah," Cuddy said. She cast a discreet glance at Sarah's left hand, and her demeanor warmed a little. Sarah bit her lip to hide a smile. "Well—okay. I could use a few hours to get things set up at home, in case—" She paused. "You have my number?"

"It's on speed dial," Sarah said. "Jim gave it to me, I hope you don't mind."

"Looks like I don't have much of a choice," Cuddy said, but she softened the words with a smile. It transformed her from a practical administrator into a tired, worried woman with her main vulnerability asleep a few feet away. "I can see why he fired you. You're as bent on getting your way as he is."

"Yup," Sarah said. "Drive carefully. Don't forget your shoes."

Cuddy blinked. “My—my shoes? How did you--”

“You’re wearing ballet flats. That truly lovely suit requires heels, but you’ve probably already put in a fourteen-hour day and your feet need a break.” Sarah offered a slight smile. “I keep a pair of slippers in my office.  Heels are great when you need them, otherwise they're pure torture.”

Cuddy chuckled. “Busted.” She gave Sarah another look, this one a bit more open. “Call me if anything . . . you know.”

“I will.”

After Cuddy’s departure Sarah took the water pitcher to the nurses station and got a refill, along with fresh cups. She put everything on the adjustable tray and sat down in the visitor’s chair. She wriggled a little and tried for a modicum of comfort, but after a minute or two it became clear there was no point in it. With a sigh she settled in as best she could and resigned herself to a very long and restless vigil.


	3. Chapter 3

When Greg wakes it is a long, slow process. Gradually he climbs out of unconsciousness to find he's in an unfamiliar room. Disoriented, he attempts to sit. Pain flashes through his body like lightning. He groans, or tries to; his throat seizes and all that comes out is a pathetic croak. Panic grips him—what the hell is going on? Why can't he speak? He tries to check for restraints, but he can’t turn his head, and one eye seems to be swollen almost shut. Nightmare images flash through his mind—bike accident, another crazy patient with a gun . . . ( _his father_ )

A small hand comes to rest on his pillow, he can just see it out of the corner of his good eye. He flinches, afraid of contact, of any touch that might turn into a slap or punch. "It's okay," a soft voice says somewhere close by. "You're in the ICU. You got hurt at the shopping center yesterday. That's why you can't talk, your throat is badly bruised."

Memory trickles in: little girl, big guy, hard takedown, a cop, Wilson's hand on his shoulder . . . Greg tries once more to turn his head to look for the stat monitor, but his neck is too stiff and sore, and his throat hurts like hell. So does his head; there’s pain trapped inside his skull, it bounces around in his brain like some manic rubber ball. But he wants to see his stats, so he tries again and is rewarded by increased pain and the addition of nausea, powerful enough that he retches on a dry throat and shoots his misery into the stratosphere. He lies back and does his best not to vomit all over himself and everything else.

"Try not to move, I can tell you what you’re looking for. Your BP's elevated and your heart rate and breathing’s a little fast," the voice says. It's not Cuddy; he frowns, pushes away a powerful sense of disappointment. She was here when he fell asleep . . . who else would be allowed to visit? He knows a sudden flash of terror. _Oh god, not Amber. It can't be her._ The delusions seem to have disappeared for good over the last week or so. But if it isn't the pooka, then who could it be? The voice is familiar . . . soft, clear, slight western twang . . . Comprehension kicks in amid the fierce shafts of pain. _You have got to be fucking kidding me! What the hell is SHE doing here?_ Because he knows now his visitor is the House whisperer.

Greg manages to move his head just enough to bring her into his limited field of vision. Sure enough, it’s Sarah Goldman in all her red-headed glory. She wears jeans and a dark green sweater; her curls are tied back in a makeshift ponytail with a few escapees here and there. Her mascara's smudged, lipstick's rubbed off, and the freckles stand out on her nose and cheeks. She looks tired, as if she's been up for too many hours in a row—and she has, she's been here with him, he knows it. But she gives him a smile, though her sea-green eyes are filled with worry . . . worry for _him_. He can’t believe it.

“So stubborn,” she says, and shakes her head. “The more you move, the worse you’ll feel. Stay still and just rest. Doctor Cuddy went home, but she'll be back. Jim will be in a little later," and she plunks her ass on the bed. Actually she sits with great care, and makes sure not to take up much room or pull on the bed linens, but he raises his right index finger and waggles it back and forth a couple of times— _uh uh, naughty_. She snorts and folds her arms.

"Now that's rich coming from _you_ , son," she says, and settles herself more comfortably. "Somebody has to pin you down, otherwise you might sneak over to Peds and start coppin' feels off the five year olds." The word 'down' comes out in two quick syllables-- _dah-own_. He can't laugh and that's a good thing because it would just encourage her, but he also can't help it when the right corner of his mouth lifts a fraction of an inch.

"Glad you're amused," Sarah says, but her gaze holds warm regard. "How's the pain?" He shows her six fingers, an exaggeration but not by much. She nods. "Thought so. Gene's coming in later today. He'll talk with the doctor about pain meds. It looks like you've got a nasty concussion, but no bleeds. Hope there’s no fracture either. One’s enough for a lifetime." She reaches around behind her and produces a plastic cup full of ice chips. They look fairly fresh. "I know it hurts to even think right now," she says softly, "but if you let a few of these melt on your tongue, it won't stick to the roof of your mouth so much."

She speaks from personal experience. Greg remembers several entries in her journal, filled with the sadness she usually keeps carefully hidden away, like the scars on her arm. Of course she would know about beatings; she received them on a regular basis throughout her childhood and youth. He sees it in her eyes too, the way they darken for a moment, and the brief flash of sadness before she moves her gaze to her hands. So when she puts the cup to his lips, he eats a few chips and finds she's right—the moisture helps, and the coolness soothes his sore throat. A tiny rill of relief washes through him. Her touch is gentle, and that feels good too, though he won’t admit it. When he’s finished she puts his phone on the table.

"Someone should have given this to you so you can communicate and let us know what you need," she says when he's done. "It'll be a few days before the soreness and swelling lets up. I’ll ask Jim to bring a charger with him when he comes back." She frowns a little. "Didn’t anyone think to offer you something to write with at least?"

 _Of course not,_ he thinks. _Nobody wants to hear what I have to say._

Sarah stands, but not to leave; she pulls a visitor's chair close to the bed and sits in it. She favors him with a keen look. “Speaking of communication, it looks like your initial diagnosis for the little girl was on the money. Your team’s running tests now, but Doctor Cuddy says everything they’ve found so far points to Ehlers-Danlos syndrome.”

He squints at the phone and types a message. _who got ddx?_

“I have no idea,” Sarah says. “Apparently the mother made noises about a civil lawsuit, so Doctor Cuddy offered to have Diagnostics take on the case free of charge in exchange for no lawyers. Mom said yes.” She offers him a slight smile. “What else do you need? Don’t move your head, use the phone.”

 _bossy_ , he types. Sarah reads it and her smile widens a bit.

“Sometimes.” She watches him with such concern. “I’m willing to listen, if you want to talk later. I know I . . .” Her voice falters. “. . . I couldn’t help you, but if I can now, please let me know.” She hesitates. "I'd like to hold your hand—is that okay?"

He stares at her for a moment: _why?_ Sarah raises her eyebrows and tilts her head a bit—the body language equivalent of 'well DUH'. That fugitive dimple at the corner of her mouth is on display. Okay, _maybe_ she's giving him a hard time. She can be tough to read, when she likes.

"Keeping you out of trouble," she reminds him. _Of course, her little joke about Peds._ Must be the concussion that causes momentary incomprehension. Wilson called her in as a guard dog to guarantee he doesn't pull another dumb stunt. Greg makes a slight circle jerk motion with his right hand, and Sarah chuckles softly. But she doesn’t reach for him. She just waits to see what he wants to do.

For a few moments he hesitates. He really doesn’t want to touch anyone, but there’s a part of him that hungers for physical contact, as much as he wants to ignore it. After a few moments, with some reluctance he puts his left hand out, palm up. When she puts her hand on his he flinches. She stops, just lets her palm rest on top of his until he relaxes. Slowly her small fingers curl around his, warm and dry. He closes his good eye and wills his hand to stay open. Eventually he is able to return her grasp, though he feels weird about it. He doesn't want to admit there's comfort in someone's presence, even a woman he won't trust . . . Exhaustion pulls at him now, along with an odd ache in his chest that has nothing to do with his injuries.

“I know you’re tired and in pain. Just relax,” Sarah tells him quietly. She says nothing more, but her hand stays where it is. It’s the last thing Greg feels as he slides into sleep.

When he wakes, it’s to a sense of peace that is as pleasant as it is unexpected. Greg slowly opens his good eye. If he doesn't move, he can just see Sarah. She sits low with her head tipped to one side against the hard back of the chair. It looks horribly uncomfortable, but she doesn't seem to mind; in fact she’s asleep. A lock of hair has escaped the ponytail with which she’s contained her curls; it lies next to the curve of her cheek. The copper and gold highlights glint in the subdued light. Her hand still holds his, a warm, gentle clasp. Silence reigns in the room, broken only by the faint noises of machinery, monitors, and distant, intermittent speech—probably the nurses in a gossip session at the station. He slips into the darkness once more, anchored by the momentary security of human contact. His last thought is of Cuddy, curled on her side in the same kind of chair as she kept vigil through the night; and he thinks of the first time he saw her next to him, her face relaxed in sleep . . .

 


	4. Chapter 4

_(October 1982_

_Another Saturday night and the place was wall-to-wall with stoners and idiots, the usual weekend crowd. Greg scanned the group in search of his quarry. No luck; she was probably still holed up in her dorm room to cram for the endo exam. He'd heard through the grapevine that she'd decided to go straight for the final, with the professor's permission. The girl was a total grind. For a month now he hadn't seen her go anywhere without a bagful of course texts slung over her shoulder. She even read while she ate lunch. He half-expected her to take a bite out of a damn book someday._

" _Hey, G-man! You expectin' someone?" Crandall handed him a beer._

" _Nope." He popped the cap on the doorjamb and took a huge swallow, enjoyed the cold bite of malty hops. "Everybody here?"_

" _Workin' on it." Crandall tasted his own brew. "Elzinga says he's got a c-note so I let him in."_

 _Greg rolled his eyes. "Did he actually_ show _you the money?"_

" _Uh . . ." Crandall looked concerned. "No, not really." He glanced at Greg. "It's okay, I'll spot him."_

" _There's one born every minute," Greg said, and pushed off from the doorway. "Later, loser."_

 _He cruised through the hordes of partygoers, satisfied to see he was given a wide berth. He'd worked hard to cultivate an aura of prickly inaccessibility; an asshole reputation made it easier to keep everyone at arm's length. Most of them weren't worth his time anyway, once part the initial observation._ A walk through the ocean of most people's souls wouldn't get your damn toes wet _, he thought, and smirked._

" _Hey, House." Martin raised a beer. "Fuckin' fantastic party." He sat on the dilapidated couch, his arm around a brunette with more rack than brains. Greg nodded in acknowledgment and moved on. Martin always said that, even if they were down to nothing better than Lucky Lager, and the Ghoul on late-night tv because they were too broke for real entertainment. AC/DC blasted from the stereo; Doug had brought in his own albums and tapes to juice up the frat's ancient collection, a risky action if you accounted for the stuff ripped off by guests and Greeks alike over the years. Greg's personal vinyl was under lock and key. No way would he let a bunch of clueless morons mess with his music._

" _House!" Elzinga stuck his head through the living room doorway, a grin plastered over his strong features. "Game's about to start, man! Get in here, we need your money!"_

" _In a minute!" Greg yelled, and gave the room a final once-over._ Nothing, dammit _. He hunched his shoulders and sauntered off to the kitchen._

_Three rounds, two burritos, one cigar and several beers later, he glanced at the clock. Eleven-thirty and still no word. Disgusted, he threw down the worst hand of the night so far and got to his feet. "Fold," he said. "I'll be back," and headed for the door._

_He was on his way back to the game after a quick piss when someone grabbed his arm. He pulled away, startled. "What the_ fuck _!" he snapped._

" _Hey, you wanted to know when the bitch made her big arrival." It was the blonde roommate he'd ambushed earlier in the week, her vapid features arranged in a pout. "I pried her ass out of the dorm and brought her here like you said."_

" _Where?" He raised his voice above the music. AC/DC had been replaced by Billy Squier in honor of the frat's win at a local car stereo outlet's weekly Loud Speakers contest. 'The Stroke' always got them first place, along with a call to the cops from nearby businesses._

_The blonde shrugged. "How the hell should I know? I left her in the living room."_

" _You don't bring her to me, you don't get paid," he said._

" _So I'm out five bucks? You are such an asshole!" She snatched a beer from someone's hand and headed into the crowd. Greg growled in exasperation. He moved to the foot of the stairs, caught a glimpse of some girl  with Doug by the record rack. No doubt they'd be stuck with New Wave homo bands all night long now just so the jerk would have a chance at some pussy._

_He was never quite sure later what made him look to his left. Probably his peripheral vision picked up something recognizable, her profile or the way her tits bounced, and the clues fitted the image he had stored in his brain. Whatever the reason, he turned his head and there stood his quarry, just a few feet away. She was poised for flight as she searched for a break in the mass of partyers, to make her escape. He took in her rigid posture and grim expression; she was mad, maybe even felt humiliated. If she left now he'd never get another chance—or at least he'd have to work a lot harder to get to her again._

_Slowly he edged closer, moved to stand behind her. As he did so the music changed—the Stones, one of their earlier albums, or maybe Hot Rocks. The song made him smile. "Let's spend the night together . . ."_ Appropriate _, he thought, and looked down at the top of Lisa Cuddy's head. She had dark brown hair with soft highlights, the thick waves clean and glossy. She smelled of Herbal Essence, Charlie and a hint of Ivory soap, pure and sweet, but beneath it all was a darker fragrance—her own musky scent. He breathed it in and felt his penis swell against the rough denim of his jeans, just as she turned and ran straight into him. He put his hands on her shoulders to steady her, ready for rejection, an angry outburst, something. Instead she went still. Her gaze rose slowly to meet his. He drew in his breath, more shaken than he cared to admit. Her eyes were a clear, crystalline blue, like the sky on a new spring morning; he felt uncomfortable under her scrutiny, as if he'd been measured against some internal standard he knew nothing about. He stared back at her, determined to win the silent battle. Her gaze fell, but not before he saw uncertainty there. When she started to turn away he took her hand in his. She jumped and raised her eyes again, wide now with something like expectation, colored with a little hesitancy._

 _Without a word they began to move upstairs, and took the steps one tread at a time. He kept hold of her hand, amazed that she actually followed him. The music faded as they rose higher, away from the noisy living room to the second floor. They passed other couples who made out like the world would end tomorrow. Greg hoped he and his partner would soon join their ranks. He didn't think he could hold out much longer; his erection was too big for the small space in which it was confined, and the pain was not pleasant._ Whoever said anticipation's half the fun was a moron. _He kicked an empty beer bottle out of the way and kept going._

_By some miracle his room was empty. He led her to the bed, swiped a pile of dirty clothes to the floor in preparation and put his arms around his partner's slender waist. She lifted her face and he kissed her as his hands slid beneath her blouse. She tasted sweet; her soft lips parted and her tongue touched his in a hesitant way that shot him straight into overdrive. He was hard as a damn rock now. His fingers twisted the hooks which held her bra in place. He'd fantasized about her breasts for weeks now, imagined the feel of them, the silk of her skin . . . He groaned, ready to explode with frustrated desire._

" _Hang on." She gave a breathy chuckle as her small hands pushed his away. "Let me do it, you don't need to ruin a perfectly good bra." A couple of snaps and the blouse fell away, followed in quick succession by flimsy lace cups._ Hmm . . . a grind but she wears seriously sexy lingerie, _some tiny sane corner of his brain noted. He trailed his fingers over the pale globes, hefted them in his palms. She gasped as he rubbed his thumbs over her nipples; she trembled, her eyes unfocused. He kissed her again and thrust his tongue over and around hers, too desperate with need to be gentle or considerate now._

_She seemed to take fire from his actions. Without warning she toppled them onto the bed in slow motion, so that he lay beneath her. He broke off the kiss, rolled to his side and moved her away, uncomfortable with her on top of him. “Rubbers,” he said, and made it his excuse for the action. She didn't object; she stayed close, pulled up his tee shirt and tried to unzip his jeans. Her lips trailed over his diaphragm._

_“I’m on the pill,” she said against his belly. Her words tickled his skin and he almost gasped aloud.The first tremors of immanent release warned him to hurry or lose the chance to take her. He tugged at her waistband and broke the fastener, a single black button. It tumbled over the edge of the bed as he yanked fabric downward. She lifted her hips, grabbed both her panties and slacks and managed to free her legs. She heaved and struggled and finally tossed the wad of clothing to the floor. He opened his jeans and freed his trapped erection, hissed as the cooler room air hit sensitized skin. He pushed her on her back and moved into position, nudged her legs apart with his knee and entered her. A harsh growl rumbled in his throat as she clutched his shoulders and tightened on him._ Not a virgin, _that same little corner of his mind observed._ Well, isn't that interesting. _He thrust hard, buried himself to the root in hot wet flesh, and pumped two, maybe three times before release roared out of him in a tidal wave. He exhaled long and slow, ignored her attempts to move her hips, pulled out and slumped on his side._

 _After he'd wallowed in delicious relief for a minute or two, he lifted his head. She lay beside him, eyes closed; her hands clutched the wrinkled sheets, then slowly let go. After a moment she turned away from him. He caught a glimpse of her expression. Frustration warred with disappointment in her pale features. Realization hit home:_ she didn't come. I was way too fast for her. _A strange sort of regret filled him. So he was a disappointment here too . . . couldn't he get_ anything _right?_

Make her stay, _that small voice within urged._ Give her more, she'll give you more.

_Now that idea held some merit. On impulse he reached out, gripped her arms and kept her in place. "No," he said, his voice harsh. She tensed, clearly afraid now and ready to fight him. He loosened his hold and began to rub his hands lightly over her skin, up and down, in an attempt to offer reassurance. "Stay." He lowered his tone, made it softer. He couldn't let her go, not now, not so soon. What was it girls liked? Touch, cuddling, gentleness—all those things he knew were a waste of time. Why dink around when you could fuck? And yet the thought of slow sex with her was not unpleasant. In fact he could easily imagine the two of them like this for hours as they explored every inch. He could watch her moods change, her expression, enjoy her quick, clever mind enclosed within the shell of sweet flesh, mutable and fascinating._

_So he kissed her, trailed his mouth over her neck and tasted her, suckled her breasts as she relaxed and allowed him to take over once more. When he teased and stroked her swollen clitoris with his thumb she arched her back. Her brilliant eyes glittered with delight and torment. "Please," she groaned, " please . . . " He chuckled, triumphant at his power over her, and pushed her over the edge. It was oddly enjoyable, to give her pleasure; it enhanced his own, something he wouldn't have thought possible. In fact he was almost ready to take her again, his flaccid penis on the rise. _

_He used his fingers to move her past the first climax and into another; he smiled as she gasped and shuddered and finally went limp. Her chest rose and fell in a ragged rhythm; he put his face between her breasts and stroked her skin with his tongue, tasted her sweat. Her hands crept up to rest on his shoulders, kneaded them gently. He tensed at her touch, but she continued to caress him. Slowly his unease dissipated. He nuzzled her fragrant hair, moved her thighs apart with his knee. When he entered her he took his time. She angled her hips upward, presumably to allow him better access._

" _Mmmmm . . ." She actually_ purred, _a throaty little sound that drove him wild. A smile curved her soft full lips. He deliberately made his strokes firm, slow and deep, took the time to steal kisses as he filled her. She returned them, took his bottom lip between her teeth, gave his throat sharp little nips that made his blood heat. Her hands rubbed his back, slid along the spring of his ribs and over his hips to push his jeans down._

" _You're wearing too many clothes." She sounded amused and annoyed at the same time. Her warm hands cupped his cheeks. "Nice ass, but I wanna see the rest of you." He growled and thrust deeper. She cried out, a soft, startled squeak that made him laugh. She gave him a light smack, more sound than substance. He leered at her, one eyebrow raised._

" _Thank you ma'am, may I have another?" He blew a soft raspberry on her neck and she giggled._

" _That tickles!"_

_He trailed his fingers over her side and was rewarded with another squeak and a desperate wriggle. With care he put his lips to her ear and gave her his best evil chortle, deep and lugubrious._

" _Mwaaaahahahahahahaaaaa . . ."_

_She burst out in a laugh and snorted. That set him off, which made her laugh harder. They clung to each other as the spasms of hilarity gradually faded. He looked down at her, took in the dimples in her cheeks, the way a smile tugged at her mouth. She returned his appraisal, her gaze clear and bright, dark hair spread out over the pillow in a fan of soft waves. After a moment he lowered his head and kissed her as he began the slow, steady rhythm of penetration once more. She felt pliant and warm beneath him, her arms tangled loosely about his waist. Usually he didn't like it when someone touched him this way, but for the moment it was perfect._

_They both came at the same time, a rare occurrence—in fact it had never happened before in his limited experience anyway. He watched her face, saw the wave of pleasure ripple through her as his own release claimed him. When it was over he rolled on his side, sodden with afterglow. Every nerve in his body hummed with a delicious sense of well-being. Vaguely he was aware of his jeans tugged off, a crumpled sheet pulled over them both. A moment later she settled next to him in spoon position. Her rounded ass pressed against his thighs; her foot stroked his shin a time or two, a possessive gesture that amused him. Not to be bested, he put his arm across her body, drew her close. She sighed and snuggled in, plainly content to be right where she was. For some reason he didn't want to examine too closely he felt the same way. He slipped into sleep, at peace with the world for the first time in a long while._

_Sometime later on Greg was wakened by the feel of kisses pressed to his throat. He grunted and tried to pull away, disoriented._

_"Relax." Small hands tugged at his shirt. "Lift your arms."_

_He obeyed and shivered as his tee was removed and tossed aside. A warm tongue stroked his left nipple. He bit back a gasp as the sensation went straight to his groin, just about the same time he realized he was pinned down. He struggled to sit up. In the process his cranium connected hard with someone's jaw. The warm weight atop his thighs bounced hard on a very tender portion of his anatomy. "OW!"_

_"Shit!" Her sibilant curse echoed in the silent room._

_"Get off me!" he snarled, and tried to push her away. Pain throbbed in his crotch and his head. After a few moments it leveled off enough to let him open his eyes with caution. In the dim light he could just see her; she held her jaw as a thin dark line trickled from her bottom lip. The sight dampened his anger._ Must have bitten her tongue when she clocked me.

_"You're bleeding," he said. She wiped the line with her fingers and got up._

_"You do have a bathroom in this mess somewhere, I hope," she said._

_He sighed and rubbed his aching head. "Turn right and keep going till you run into the toilet," he said. She favored him with a hard look, but went in the direction he indicated. A moment later light flooded his vision. He squinted and caught a glimpse of her as she stood naked in front of the sink. In the mellow light her skin was a pale ivory color without tan lines, her pubic hair a soft little cloud of dark curls. She rinsed out her mouth and searched for a clean towel to dry off._ Good luck with that _, he thought. No one had done the laundry in well over a month. The housemom had quit a couple of weeks back and the chapter hadn't found a replacement._

 _The light winked out. A few moments later he felt the bed sag a little as she sat down._ _"I'm fine, thanks for asking." The sarcasm was clear this time. He didn't answer, unsure of what to say. He was embarrassed by his panic earlier, annoyed that she had seen it._

_"You okay?" She seemed concerned. Her fingers brushed over his temple. He ducked away from her touch and winced as his head throbbed._

_"Yeah. Sorry," he mumbled._

_"It's all right." She smiled, he could hear it in her voice. "I promise not to tackle you again."_

_When she lay next to him once more he couldn't bring himself to touch her. She didn't seem to notice. She curled up around him, rested her cheek on his chest. Her hand caressed his hip, trailed slow circles over his skin. It was not really a sexual gesture, more one of reassurance. His tension began to slide away despite his efforts to hang onto it. Wariness was a strategy he knew well. An offer of comfort was unknown territory. He'd seen others do it; he knew it was a process which involved variations on hugs, pats and a 'there, there' speech, but the emotional aspect bewildered him. Why bother? People either got over things or they didn't, and no amount of  touchy-feely made much difference as far as he could tell._

_"You sure you're all right?" She stroked his cheek._

_He pushed her hand away. "Knock it off!"_

_To his surprise she chuckled. "A manly man, huh?" She nibbled his collarbone. "Let me kiss it better. It'll help."_

_He rolled his eyes and regretted it when his head throbbed. "Gosh Mom, I can hardly wait."_

_"Here's a news flash." Her fingers slid over his belly to take him in a gentle but firm grasp. "I'm not your mother."_

_He'd never gotten it up three times in one night, though there was that party a couple of years ago with twin girl wrestlers, a quart of Mazola oil and ten cases of beer; he couldn't remember everything that happened after the final round, but he was pretty sure the oil had been used for more than wrestling at least twice and maybe . . ._

_But none of that mattered now, when he was brought to a marvelous state of arousal by a small hand with a soft silky palm and plenty of enthusiasm. He allowed her to work him until he knew for certain he could stay hard; then he grabbed her arms and flipped her under him. She gave a squeak of surprise, that same little noise she'd made before, but when he settled over her she smiled up at him. He stared down at her. She raised her eyebrows and twitched her lips into an impudent smirk._

_"You think you're so smart," he said, and felt his mood lighten._

_"I_ know _I'm so smart." Her smirk turned to a grin. It lit up her features; beauty shone from her like light from a lamp. He drew in his breath, afraid to blink in case it all disappeared. "Gonna do me or are you waiting for a train?"_

_Now he couldn't help but smile too. "'Gonna do it to ya/gonna do ya/sweet banana,'" he sang under his breath. She chuckled and stretched her arms in a lazy fashion, raised them above her head before she settled them in an open clasp around his hips, her hands on his ass._

_"So do me already," she said, and gasped when he took her at her word._

_This time he knew what pleased her. He used that knowledge to bring her to the brink of release several times before she reached orgasm. It was intriguing, to use empirical method to improve sexual technique, rather than just a source of quick gratification; he could practice his technique and get better at it each time. Experimentation would bring plenty of quantifiable results. And it was, well . . ._ sex _, with a beautiful and compliant partner—what more could he want?_

_After his own release he brought the sheet up over her and lay still beside her. When he was sure she was asleep he eased out of the bed. For a moment he stood and looked down at her. He smoothed a lock of hair from her cheek and smiled when she murmured and snuggled into the pillows. In silence he dressed, then left the darkened room. He needed some time to himself to think things through.)_


	5. Chapter 5

_October 30th_

"Nuh . . . n . . . _NO_!"

Sarah jumped as a rough, broken voice jolted her out of a light doze. Pain shot up her arm; her hand was squeezed so tightly she could feel the bones grind together. With difficulty she focused her attention on the cause—her patient. He struggled in an apparent attempt to wake up. From the look on his battered face he'd just come out of a nightmare; he was absolutely terrified, that much was very clear. If she woke him up too fast he might inflict more damage on both himself and her too.

"Greg," she said, and fought to keep her voice steady. She used a calm, soft tone, the words slow and measured. "Greg, it's okay. It's all right." She didn't try to pull her hand free. After a few moments his good eye opened; he blinked a few times and turned his gaze to her. To Sarah's surprise she saw tears glitter on his lashes. His grip loosened as he let go of her hand and pushed it away. She resisted the urge to check for bruises, even though her fingers throbbed.

"All you all right?" she asked quietly. He didn't answer right away. Then he made a dismissive gesture, his face etched with pain. Sarah's heart ached for him. She had to find a way to help, even if he appeared to reject her efforts.

"I know you can't talk," she said when the silence stretched on, "but you could tell me what happened with texts, if you like. You don't have to do it unless you want to. You can use my phone until Jim stops by with the charger later today." She picked up her purse and rummaged through the contents, found her phone and put it on the adjustable table. With reluctance he took it as she moved the table in place and set the ice chip pitcher and cups aside. House raised the back of the bed higher, tilted the phone so he could more easily read the display, and began to go through her speed dial list. Sarah shook her head at him. “You are nosy as hell. You only know a couple of people on that list and the rest won’t mean anything to you anyway. But feel free.”

As she’d suspected, permission killed the joy of the illicit behavior. He glared at her with one fierce blue eye, slapped the option to text and punched the letters. Sarah winced at the amount of force he used. He shoved the phone at her.

_point?_

"You might find discussion useful," she said. "Powerful dreams, good or bad, can be considered guides. They often show us places where we're in need of healing or introspection."

He moved the phone back and pecked out another message.

_cigar = cigar_

Sarah smiled a little. "Yes, that's true sometimes. But you won't know unless you take a good look, will you?" She sat back. "Give this a chance. If you don't want to do anything with what we talk about, you can just forget it."

_cartoons are on_

"Basic cable doesn't extend to Cartoon Network, and it's way too early for anything else," she said. "Stop stalling and do it, or don't."

He hesitated; then he began to type. Sarah stood, turned her chair to give him some privacy and took a battered paperback out of her purse, only to be stopped as the phone was thrust under her nose.

_not a good idea_

"Whaddaya mean?" She gave it her best Jersey accent. He didn't crack a smile but she sensed amusement, and something else.

 _can't trust you_ was the unexpected reply. Still, she wanted to hear his reasons. Sarah tilted her head. "Why not?"

_journal_

She stared at the word. "You means yours, yes?” Greg nodded and winced. “Use the phone,” she scolded gently. “Okay, what about it?"

_showed it to team_

She nodded. "Yes, I did."

_didn’t ask permission_

Sarah felt warmth creep into her cheeks. “Well . . . you’re right, I didn’t. But if you remember, I did say whatever you wrote would be private unless you chose to share it with me. I . . . I couldn’t figure out how you’d encrypted the journal entries. You designed it that way—“ She stopped and knew it was a mistake the moment the words came out of her mouth. They were a rationalization even if they were truthful, and Greg would pounce.

_broke dr-pt & HIPAA codes boo hoo_

Annoyance flared. "I—I bent them, I didn’t--" She paused. Heat crawled up her neck as realization filtered in. "You set me up. You knew I'd fall into your little trap because I'm not anywhere near your level of intelligence, and I’d need help. So you made sure I talked to your team and proved you were right not to trust me." _Great_ , she thought. _Nice goin', Sare. You've just earned the title of World's Most Predictable Dumbass._

:)

The little smiley face stoked her anger; her face must be scarlet by now. She took a deep breath, let it out. "Well," she said slowly. "Well. Okay. You're right, dammit. I was wrong to betray your trust that way. I'm sorry." She knew an apology would never begin to satisfy him; he'd want deeds, not words. "You--you still have my journal, don't you?"

_yes . . . ?_

Go ahead and show it to whomever you like." She acknowledged the bloom of dread deep within and set it aside. "What goes around, comes around."

_seriously?_

"Uh-huh." She nodded at the phone. "Now write. Pretty please. Try the note function. I know it’s limited, but do what you can and we’ll—we’ll work with it."

While he complied she went to the nurses station for fresh ice chips and some ginger ale. "Long night," she said to the LPN at the desk.

"As usual." The other woman shook her head. "I don't know how you can stand to be around him, he's a pain in the ass. Doctors are the worst patients."

Sarah smiled but said nothing in reply. She took the pitcher and drink and made her way back to House's bed. He didn't acknowledge her as she reclaimed the chair and her book, but a few moments later she looked up as the phone slid over the pages she'd stared at without comprehension.

"You really want me to see this?" House snapped his fingers. When she looked at him he glared at her and pointed to the phone.

"Just making sure," she said, and picked it up. The description was brief but held plenty of detail. She re-read it, then handed it back to him. _This is the no-trust version. I'd bet dollars to navy beans he's left quite a few things out, and not just because of limited character count._ "Thanks," she said. "Up for some questions?"

He rolled his good eye and winced.

_go_

"You were thinking of Cuddy when you fell asleep, remembering your night together in college."

_yes_

"And somewhere along the way, things changed. You stepped out of the house and found yourself in a different place, not where you started out. You said it looked like somewhere in the Plains—definitely not Ann Arbor or even Michigan."

He pointed at the 'yes' on the screen.

"That's not uncommon. You're probably remembering two separate dream cycles as one event." She paused, marshaled her thoughts. "You saw a tornado. Can you describe it?"

He tapped at a word.

_point?_

"Dream elements often have relevance to our everyday lives," she said. "We tend to take pieces of day-to-day events and incorporate them, along with some universal archetypes and our own personal symbolism.”

Greg glared at her, his blue eye fierce with something close to dislike.

_jungian BS_

Sarah raised her brows. “Some people think that, yeah. They believe dreams are useless or just the brain’s way of recycling odds and ends of memories or the day’s events. I think that’s a rather arrogant and dismissive attitude. Nature generally has a good reason for the way she designs complex structures, and the human brain is a very complicated piece of engineering.” She hesitated, then went on. “A tornado is a powerful symbol. It's a natural phenomenon, a force of nature that can level the biggest structures, drive a straw straight through a tree trunk, but leave a delicate porcelain cup full of hot tea sitting untouched on a table."

He thought for a while before he answered. His lean fingers tapped out the words with visible reluctance.

_long & thin  white  fast winds_

Her interest quickened. "Straight sides or wedge-shaped?"

**| |**

"Huh. A tube with strong, tight rotation . . . must have looked like a mobile buzzsaw." She could see it in her mind's eye, a powerful image. Memories of her own encounters pressed on her; she set them aside, as she always did, and concentrated on the matter at hand.

_white?_

"Most tornadoes are actually white or light grey because of the condensation of water vapor," she said. "Color is changed by lighting conditions or the amount of debris or dirt pulled up by the winds. I don't know that the color has real significance in this case, though it’s possible."

_don't get it_

"Get what?" She gave him a puzzled look.

_before your time old tv ad_

"Tell me, please," she said, intrigued. He sighed and coughed. A bit of color came into his bruised face; he looked tired again, the line between his brows more pronounced. Time to wind things down and let him rest.

_look it up_

"Okay," she said, and made a mental note to do a google search at home later. She considered all the details. "Sounds like an EF2, possibly a very strong EF1. Even the smaller funnels can be pretty violent."

_geek_

Sarah chuckled. "It's worse than that. I used to chase all summer long between semesters back in college, now it's just two weeks a year. Completed a Masters in meteorology in between storms," she said, and couldn't keep the pride out of her voice.

_WTF?_

She smiled. "I've always wanted to know how weather works, even as a kid. Tornadoes in particular fascinated me. Chasing came naturally. And then after a few seasons drivin’ around the midwest looking for lowering rotation, I started askin’ myself, ‘what the hell compels people to do something so dangerous?’ It’s part of the reason why I earned a doctorate in psychology and my current position at Mayfield." She flipped the page. "Back to your dream." She hesitated. "Can you tell me what was happening right before you woke up?"

It was a mistake to ask; she could see him shut down before her eyes.

_tired_

"All right." She leaned back. He told the truth, at least to some extent. "Want some ginger ale?"

_NO_

"Okay. What would you like?"

_ PRIVACY _

She knew it was a reaction to so much openness, but his reply hurt all the same. Still, she only retrieved her purse, tucked the book inside and got to her feet. She debated on whether to lend him her phone, but his was completely dead and he might need a way to communicate, so she dug out the charger she kept with her and plugged it into the outlet next to the bed. "You keep this for now. If you need me, just—just get the nurse. I'll let the charge desk know where I am and they can get me, that's--" As she straightened he took her hand in his, gently this time. She stopped, startled into silence. He looked at the red pressure marks on her fingers. In the angle of his downbent head she saw apology and defiance, along with something else—confusion, weariness. Her own pain faded, replaced by the compassion she always felt for this complicated and contradictory man. She understood some of his baggage very well; she had a few matching pieces of her own.

"It's okay," she said, and meant it. "Sleep well." She loosed her hand and put it over his for a moment, then left the room in silence.


	6. Chapter 6

Lisa paused at the threshold of House's room. It was rather bleak despite the soft, muted light from the lamp over the head of the bed; the blinds were closed to the dreary grey morning outside. The patient lay asleep, his head propped with a pillow on one side to offer support. The bruises on his throat and face had begun to change from solid purple to livid splotches of green and a sickly yellow; a good sign, she knew, but they still looked god-awful. And so did he, if the lines of exhaustion in his pale features were anything to go by.

It tore at her to see him like this; how many times had she witnessed him helpless and beaten down by pain and injury? She wanted to offer comfort, though she knew he would probably refuse it. He'd always been reluctant to trust reassurance or compassion of any kind. She wondered if that was why he'd fired Doctor Goldman. The woman didn't seem like the big-hugs emotional type, but you never knew . . .

As quietly as she could manage it Lisa entered the room. Her boots squeaked a bit on the linoleum floor as she headed for the empty chair drawn up next to the bed. A tray table stood beside it, cluttered with odds and ends—water pitcher, cups, a box of tissues, a smartphone hooked up to a charger. All were within easy reach of the patient. Lisa spared him a glance and found he was awake. Although he looked exhausted, his gaze was as powerful as ever; still, there was something, some vulnerability behind the watchfulness in his expression that broke her heart. On impulse she leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his temple. To her surprise he didn't pull away. She felt him exhale slowly, a soft sound she had never heard him make before, not in this sort of circumstance. She sat down in the chair, her concern grown to outright anxiety.

"How are you? Do you need anything?" she asked, and cursed herself for an idiot. Of course he couldn't answer, his throat was still too bruised and swollen. But she was wrong about his inability to communicate. He pulled the phone toward himself a bit, typed in a message, then pushed it over to her.

_stop freaking out_

She relaxed somewhat as relief flooded through her. Same old House, only in this case she found his irritation familiar, and even a sort of reassurance. "I'm not freaking out," she said. "You have to allow me to be just a little concerned that one of my employees has been injured. Again.” She smiled to take the sting out of her words. “How's the pain? I can get you some ginger ale."

_pain's pain NO GINGER ALE jew mama_

"Well yeah, that's what I am," she said, and kept her tone reasonable. "What would you like to drink then? You're okay for clear liquids, I asked."

 _decaf tea_ came the unexpected response. Lisa looked at him. What the hell was going on? Had the head injury caused more damage than they'd originally thought? “You hate tea,” she said flatly. House tapped on the little pad.

_T E A need diagram?_

"I do happen to know what tea is, thanks," she said. "Fine, if that’s what you want." She glanced at the door. "I'll send down to the cafeteria."

Rank occasionally had its privileges. Fifteen minutes later two steaming cups sat on the tray table, along with several packets of sugar and an oatmeal-raisin cookie wrapped in a paper napkin. She bit into the cookie and savored the sweetness. As she munched House thrust the phone at her.

_share_

She laughed. "You've got to be kidding. No way could you eat anything like this."

_greedy bitch_

Lisa brushed a crumb from her lip, raised a brow and smirked at him. "Paybacks are hell," she said. His good eye narrowed, but she saw a hint of reluctant acknowledgment and amusement in the blue depths.

_I gave you a dozen!!!_

"Yeah, and by the time I counted the bites taken out there were maybe six cookies left, you jerk." She crammed in the last mouthful and swallowed noisily. “Bet you had to steal them from the cafeteria too, since you used up my meal vouchers buying dinner for you and your buddies.”

 _hope you choke_ was the charming reply. She wrinkled her nose at him.

"Want some ice in your tea?"

He nodded and winced. Lisa paused, stricken by the flash of pain in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said.

_ stop it _

"House . . ." She fell silent for a moment, not sure what to say or do.

_ice_

"Yeah. Okay." She picked up the pitcher and found it full of ice water. "I'll be right back."

She hurried out to the station and returned with a fresh supply of chips and a bendable straw. She cooled the tea a bit and stirred in some sugar, placed the straw in the cup and offered it. He took a small sip, then another. He managed to drink half before he had to stop, his discomfort obvious.

"Better?" she asked, and knew it was an idiotic thing to say. He gave her a sarcastic thumbs-up and lay his cheek to the pillow, eyes closed. "You're missing Halloween, you know," she said, in an attempt to distract him. "I bought Rachel a great costume. She'll be a pumpkin."

House opened his eyes to glare at her. He typed furiously, held up the phone right in front of her face.

s _hut up_

"You wouldn't say that if you could see it," Lisa said. She was back on familiar ground now. "I'll take pictures. The stem is a hat, and her little feet poke out of the bottom. She's so cute!"

_SHUT. UP._

She snorted. "You don't fool me. You know you love babies in pumpkin suits."

_only if you make em into pie_

"Well, Wilson thinks it's adorable," she said, and chuckled. "He gave me the idea for my own costume. I went to the thrift store and bought eight of the ugliest baby dolls they had and a hot pink tracksuit."

_OctoMom your #1 role model_

Any reply she would have made was lost when Wilson came in, coffee cup in one hand, Dunkin Donuts bag in the other. "Hey," he said when he spotted Lisa. "How's the patient?"

"Awake and mocking me," she said.

"In other words, recovering nicely," Wilson said, and set the bag on the tray table. House stared at it, then slowly turned his gaze on Wilson. He typed and held up the phone.

_you are a dead man_

"They're chocolate bavarian creams," Wilson said. "You hate them, they always dump powdered sugar down your shirt. You wouldn't eat _beignets_ in New Orleans for that reason, if you remember. Anyway, two of these are for Sarah." He gave Lisa a quizzical look. "She was supposed to be here . . . ?"

"She went to the gynecologists lounge to crash for a while. She left word at the desk." Lisa opened the sack and breathed in the fragrance of freshly baked pastry. "Damn. I just had a cookie."

"You only live once." Wilson reached into the sack. "Besides, it's Halloween. We're too old to go door to door with a pillowcase, and every store's sold out of bag candy. Anyway, these taste better with coffee than Mary Janes or SweetTarts." He bit into the doughnut he'd chosen. A cascade of powdered sugar fell down his front. House threw the phone at him. It flew a short distance, reached the end of its charger tether, and fell to the bed. Wilson picked it up.

" _Ha ha_ ," he read aloud. "Ouch. I've been savaged yet again by your razor-sharp wit." He gave the phone back to House, who snatched it out of his hand. "Has Gene arrived?"

"Gene who?" Lisa snagged a doughnut. Despite House's wrathful stare, she took a bite. Rich chocolate cream filled her mouth and she almost moaned aloud in bliss. She avoided sweet stuff like the plague; sugar and starch always went right to her hips and it took forever to work off the pounds, but what the hell, Wilson was right. She'd worry about it tomorrow.

House shoved the phone under Lisa's nose. She read it as she chewed slowly.

_pain mgt dr_

"Doctor Goldman's husband? He doesn't have privileges here."

"It's an unofficial consult," Wilson said. "He's checking in because his patient is in Princeton, not New York. Funny how that works."

"And is his wife unofficial too?" Lisa licked her fingers. "She says she's taking House on again. Brave woman."

House slapped out a text and threw the phone at Lisa. She caught it and read the message.

_talking like I'm not here!_

I know you're here," she said. "I'm the one who got you tea, remember?" To distract him she took a bit of chocolate cream from her doughnut and dabbed it on House's bottom lip. He paused, clearly startled by her action. Then he licked the cream with the tip of his tongue. His gaze dropped from her mouth to her cleavage as he did so. Lisa felt her cheeks grow warm and looked away.

"Jeez, get a room already," Wilson said. He sounded amused. "Preferably not one in ICU where every nurse on the floor can watch you practice foreplay." He grabbed the bag and headed for the door. On the way he pulled the privacy curtain so that it moved around the track. "Back in fifteen minutes," he said, his tone deliberate. His footsteps faded. Silence settled over the room, until the sound of House’s fingers on the keypad caught Lisa's attention. After a moment the phone moved into her field of vision.

_you know about yesterday_

Her stomach clenched. "Yes," she said softly. She wasn't sure she wanted to talk about this now, so soon after it happened.

He took it back. More typing.

_anxiety attack_

"What? You had one before . . .?" she asked, a little confused. Wilson hadn't mentioned that fact.

 _after_ He hesitated. _won’t happen again_

Lisa stared at the words. "But . . . but you were getting help . . . weren't you? In—at Mayfield?"

_I’m fine Goldman is not my dr or anything else_

The last few words angered her. "I never thought she was anything else!" she snapped—a white lie, but he wouldn’t care anyway. "And--and what possible difference does it make what I think? It's not like—you and I--" She stopped. This was treacherous ground; by mutual silent agreement they hadn’t talked about that night in college years ago, though it stood at the back of her thoughts when she spoke with House more often than she cared to admit, even to herself.

_like we???_

"Not like we're—together, or anything." Lisa wished she hadn't even begun this whole stupid conversation. This would cause nothing but trouble.

_trying to scare me? it's working_

She wasn't ready for how much the words hurt. She stared down at the phone and the simple message on the screen. "You just can't resist a cheap shot, can you?" she whispered. "Even when you're lying in a bed in my hospital. My hospital. I thought you—you were—" Bitterness welled up, choked her. Time to leave before she said something, did something . . . She stood and avoided his gaze. "I have to get going. Rachel's nanny can only stay till eleven and I need to pick up diapers."

She half-expected him to stop her with some snotty remark, but after a moment or two he put the phone on the table and closed his eye. It was plainly a dismissal. Humiliation and wounded pride overrode pain. Lisa snatched up her purse and almost ran from the room, positive her face was scarlet. _I don't know why I believed things would be different,_ she thought as she rode the elevator to the lobby. _I thought he was better. I won't make that mistake again._

 


	7. Chapter 7

It's late evening; the floor is quiet, with official visiting hours over. Greg's been moved out of ICU, downgraded to simple observation for the rest of the night and release in the morning. He's also been allowed some halfway decent pain medication—a result of mendacity on his part, though he didn’t have to fake things too much. As a result he is in minimal discomfort for the first time in days, if he's careful. The bed next to his is empty, and for that he is profoundly grateful. There have been people in and out of the room on various errands all day long, and he wants nothing more than to be alone. Doesn't he?

He picks up the cream soda Wilson brought in earlier and takes a sip through the bendy straw poked into the top of the cup. It's way too sweet and redolent of fake vanilla; on any other occasion he'd refuse this nasty stuff, but right now it actually tastes something close to okay. It’s chilled just enough to dampen the cheap-ass flavor, and it doesn't burn his throat or hurt his stomach. And it's not ginger ale. His mother used to pour so much Canada Dry into him during his few childhood illnesses, he swore his pee had bubbles in it.

After he manages three swallows, he grabs the remote and cruises through available channels. The selection is lousy, but he hopes there's something to take his mind off things. A cartoon special, a cheesy horror movie, wrestling, the New Yankee Workshop—he doesn't care. Anything is better than a continual mental replay of Gene Goldman's visit.

_("I spoke with Will Reynard. He's concerned about the injuries you've sustained, especially the concussion. He wants to push the nerve block back thirty days to give you time to heal and get your pain meds stabilized. He'll call you in a day or two, when you can talk.")_

He can't stand to think about it, the unfairness of it, the endless wait ahead. Thirty days is an eternity. He's not sure he can last that long. Not because of the pain; he can put up with the level he's at now, mainly because Goldman got his meds upped to decent dosages. No, it's more the fact that's he's already bored out of his cracked skull. That's a very dangerous state for him, he knows it all too well. He gets in trouble when he's bored. Well, to be fair he gets in trouble all the time, but most especially when he has no puzzles to keep him distracted.

On his third cycle through the miserly selection of channels he is interrupted by the arrival of someone he has never seen before. She's a short, skinny q-tip of a woman, with a ludicrous red silk turban perched atop what can only be a cheap wig—he certainly hopes it is anyway, and not her natural hair--a paisley shawl with thick glossy gold fringe drawn over her shoulders, a reusable insulated grocery bag in one hand and an enormous flower-bedecked purse in the other. She knocks on the door as she comes in, marches right up to the bed, chandelier earrings a-jangle, and looks him over.

"You Greg House?" When he says nothing she chuckles. "Must be, Sarah said you were a tall drink of water with bruises on your throat and face. Anyway, she also said room three oh-baby four, and this is it. Since you're the only one in here, you must be him." She pulls a purple velvet bag from her purse. "She didn't say you were a cutie pie too. If only I were twenty years younger!"

He watches in alarm as she clears off the tray table and opens the hideous purse to take out a paper packet of salt; it’s the kind you get at fast-food places or diners. “Salt’s a good way to clean off the negative vibes,” she says. “Some people are real snobs about using only sea salt gathered by vegan nymphs in raw-silk tunics, but when you come down to it, a molecule is a molecule, and that’s good enough to go on.” She sprinkles it over the table, circles her hand an inch above the smooth surface three times, then brushes the salt to the floor. When she rummages in the purse and pulls out what looks to be a deck of tarot cards, Greg presses the call button.

"Now now, don't panic—call Atlantic!" the woman says, and laughs. Greg vaguely remembers an air-conditioning and heating company by that name in the area, who’d used the slogan for their commercials years ago. "Sarah asked me to come up and read for you. Not a full spread, though, just three cards. You ever been read before?" She gives him a keen look. He stares back at her and silently wills her to get out. "Nope, guess not. Wow, a bona fide virgin! Not too many of those left in the world!" She chuckles at her own wit and takes the cards out of the bag as a nurse looks into the room from the doorway. "It's okay honey," the woman says before the nurse can speak. "Doctor Goldman asked me to come in and keep this young man company for a little while. Is that all right? She cleared it with Doctor Cuddy."

"Uh—well, it's after visiting hours, but if Doctor Cuddy says it's okay . . ." The nurse makes what Greg considers a craven retreat to the safety of the station. He grits his teeth in frustration as his unwanted visitor plops her narrow behind on the bed. Her earrings jingle and strobe in the light of the lamp. He wants to yank them out of her ears and hurl them across the room; the temptation is so strong he has to stuff his hands under the table.

"You wanna do the honors?" she says, and offers him the deck. He keeps his hands out of sight, though his fingers twitch. This massive display of insanity makes him long to rip off his monitor leads and bolt out the door. "All right, no problem." She starts to shuffle the cards with the skill of long practice. "A nice three-card spread, let's see . . . how about something easy-peasy. Past, present, future. That's the ticket!"

Despite his animosity he is intrigued by the way she talks while she shuffles, as if it is second nature. She cuts the cards once—"toward the heart," she says, "it's an old tradition my Russian gypsy grandma taught me"—and fans them out in a near-perfect semi-circle. "Choose three."

He folds his arms despite the pain it causes, and gives her a death glare. She puts on a pair of reading glasses, a really hideous style replete with rhinestones and sparkly spangles on the earpieces. Behind the lenses her dark eyes twinkle with amusement.

"Tough customer, huh?" She looks him over, an assessment that takes in every detail. "Okay, fine." With a deft flip of the wrist she pulls three cards from the fan and puts them face down in a neat row on the table. "Here we go, then. What's in your past?" She turns over the first card. "Ah . . . the King of Swords. Hmm . . ." She contemplates the image. "Someone used to making decisions for the benefit of all. A man who lives in the mind, but has a strong intuition to back up the powerful logic. A very sharp mind, at that. Swords do cut deep. They have double edges, though." She's silent for a moment. "King of Pain," she says, and peers at him over her glasses. " _Jeez_ , honey." Her sympathy grates on him. "There's a strong military influence in there somewhere, some kind of authority figure looks like, and a buttload of legal stuff. Good thing that's in the past, huh? Let's move on, okay?"

The second card is turned over. Her thin face brightens. "The Fool . . . now that's interesting. You're embarking on a brand-new journey. Sort of an unknown road."

Greg cannot believe what he just heard. He thinks of his dream, of the ride down a straight ribbon of highway between wide open fields, his heart filled with an equal sense of hope and fear as the dawn follows him forward.

"There's a caution here," she says. Her voice has lost its goofy good humor; for a moment she’s serious. It’s as if a totally different woman sits before him now. "Choose your path carefully. Leaving pain behind is more than just walking away." She pushes her glasses into place with a skinny finger. "But you know that already. The Fool is Major Arcana. That means this is life lesson time, something you’ll come back to quite a bit as you travel through this lifetime. Just don't forget it because you wish things were different. Now, how about the future?"

The last card is revealed. "The Hanged Man." The woman stares down at it, frowns a bit. "Trouble deciding what to do, yeah. You'll feel stuck, like you're just . . . hanging around." She chuckles and glances up at him, the twinkle back in her eyes as she invites him to share the joke. He doesn't so much as blink. "Well, all I can tell you is that there's a time coming up when you'll have to decide between doing what you always do, and trying something different." She sits back. "Remember the definition of insanity and all that." She starts to pick up the cards. "You might take a look at your dreams. I've found my own to be very helpful. Sarah’s pretty good at dream interpretation, if you need some advice."

That's it. He cannot stand any more of this nonsense. He resists the urge to sweep everything off the table, and instead points to the door. " _Out_ ," he growls. The woman chuckles.

"Hit a nerve, huh? Okay, fine." She places the cards in the velvet bag and tucks them in her purse, then bends down to pick up the insulated sack she brought in. "Sarah sent this with me. She said if you made it through the reading without throwing a hissy fit, you get a treat." She slides off the bed and puts the sack on the tray table. "Enjoy, and a happy Samhain to you, sweetheart. Hope your new year is better than the old one. You deserve it after everything you’ve been through."

He waits until she is gone, then delves into his surprise. Neatly packed within is a hand-held game and several new non-fiction trade paperbacks inside a food storage bag, a large covered cup wrapped in a thick insulated holder with a bendy straw taped to the side, and a folded note. He takes out the cup first, pops the lid. The subtle fragrance of hazelnuts fills his nostrils. He places the straw into the cup, takes a sip and savors a first hit of delicious mellow smoothness. It slides down his sore throat like silk. Pleased, he opens the note.

_Hope you enjoy your treats. Everyone at the Bent Spoon says hello. I borrowed the game from Gene in hopes of preserving the lives and/or sanity of the night shift._

_You should be home by mid-morning but if you need anything before then, call. One of the nurses will help you out, I made arrangements. Wilson's picking you up. See you on Sunday—SG_

Soon enough he's engrossed in the selection on the handheld. The books he'll keep as emergency rations in case he can't sleep. Now he's pretty sure he can make it through the weekend in one piece.

As he starts up an old favorite game, much against his will he thinks of what the woman told him during the reading. Of course it’s all bullshit, a huge pile of lies and confabulation . . . but some part of him feels a weird resonance with what she told him. _It’s a randomly-generated fortune that could fit anyone,_ he reminds himself as the game starts. _That’s how the con works—it sounds just plausible enough for the sucker to be taken in._ He refuses to think about it and tries to settle his concentration on the game, but the images intrude on his thought process. King of Swords . . . king of pain. Not a title he’d ever admit to . . . but it fits, whether he likes it or not.

Five lost games later, he sets the hand-held aside, finishes off his milkshake, and slips into a restless, dream-plagued sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

_October 31st_

Sarah woke to a sense of being watched by many eyes. It was . . . creepy. She sat up, careful not to disturb her husband, and looked around the room. There were pictures everywhere—Amber and Jim, Amber alone, Amber with other people . . . She hadn't paid any attention to her environment when she'd crawled into bed yesterday. _Slept in a shrine and didn't even know it_ , Sarah thought. She pushed aside the bedclothes, stood and stretched a bit. A framed photograph sat on the nightstand. She picked it up, studied it. Amber and Jim sat side by side, arms around each other. Amber’s long hair lay against Jim’s cheek; his hand cupped her breast, fingers just under the curve. they smiled at the camera, confident in their love and closeness. It was a portrait of intimacy, a rare display on Jim’s part; he kept his inner emotions under lock and key, and hid his need for physical touch as if it was some horrible disease.

On a quiet sigh Sarah replaced the photo and opened her overnight case to get her bathrobe. Her belly rumbled and she needed caffeine. Beside her Gene stirred. “Mmmff,” he said into the pillow. Sarah smiled a little. Her husband was not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination.

“Go back to sleep,” she said softly. “I’ll bring you some coffee in a little while.”

Gene turned his head. “Mmmm.”

It was early; grey light had just begun to show outside, but Jim was already in the kitchen with a carafe of fresh-brewed coffee. Sarah couldn't help but smile at the sight of him in pajamas and bathrobe, his dark hair tousled from sleep. "Good morning," she said.

"Morning. You still drinking it watered down?" He moved to the fridge and took out a container of creamer.

"Black tea please," she said, and waited for his reaction. It didn't take long. Jim turned his head and gave her a look, brows raised.

"What? Since _when_? Weren't you the one who ended up in the hospital over Christmas break in your junior year? Too many term papers, too much coffee was the official diagnosis, if I recall." He poured out a cup and added some creamer and sugar.

"Since I found out I'm sensitive to the caffeine in coffee. Yeah, I'm a wuss," she said. He gave her an innocent look.

"Did I say that?"

"You know, you should find a way to patent that expression," she said. A chance to tease Jim was one of life's small delights. "You'd make a fortune."

"Amber says . . ." His voice trailed off. "She said the same thing."

Her amusement drained away. _So much pain_ , she thought. She came closer and reached out to take his hand. "I'm sorry," she said softly, and flinched when he clasped her fingers in his. He paused, turned her hand over.

"What--what is _this_?" He lifted her hand to examine the bruises. "What the hell happened?"

"It was an accident," she said. A part of her deep inside laughed at her choice of words; how many times had she said them before?

"Gene did this to you?"

"Of course not," she said. Jim's eyes widened.

" _House_?"

"He was dreaming," she said. "It wasn't a deliberate act."

"What else is new? The man's a walking disaster," Jim said under his breath. He released her hand gently and gave her a close look. "You really are okay?"

"I'm fine," she said. "I could ask you the same question."

Immediately he closed down, just as she knew he would. "It's all good." He sipped his coffee and avoided her gaze. Sarah felt a surge of impatience. When Jim felt like it he could clam up with the best of them.

"I know that look," he said. He frowned at her, and she saw his strabismus was more pronounced—a sure sign he was agitated or overtired. "You're trying to find some way to have a session with me. I'm already seeing a therapist and I'm . . . making progress. So don't—just—just don’t start with me, okay? Just . . . don’t."

"Okay," she said, her tone mild. "I'm glad you're getting help."

"Sorry," he said after a moment. "I’m sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you."

"You don't have to apologize. It's been a tough few days."

"House thinks I'm nuts," he muttered. He still wouldn't look at her. "Sometimes . . . sometimes I think . . ."

Sarah tilted her head a bit. She couldn’t help but sort this out just a little. "You think he's right."

"I think it's hopeless." He leaned against the counter and held his mug with both hands, shoulders slumped a little. " _I'm_ hopeless."

"What makes you say that?" She kept her tone neutral.

"I don't want to forget her—I still . . . still love her. . ." He sighed. "I know, I know. Life goes on, time heals all wounds, all of those stupid clichés you hear . . . Everyone keeps telling me I’ll get over what’s happened. But it feels like it—it just happened. Life hasn’t gone on—well, definitely not for Amber, and not for me either."

"It's only been a little over a year," Sarah said quietly. "I'd be more worried if you had forgotten her."

Jim shook his head. "I'm supposed to move on."

"Did your therapist tell you that?"

"Not exactly." He sounded distant now, and immeasurably sad. She couldn't help but offer some comfort.

"He told you not to put yourself on a timetable," she said. "It takes as long as it takes." She paused. "Some part of you will always mourn her loss, you know."

"All of me will do that." He smiled a little. "But I guess it's better to remember and hurt than forget and feel nothing."

She gave him a hug just as Gene came into the kitchen. He watched them, yawned, and smiled just a bit. "That must be some damn good coffee," he said. "Someone was supposed to bring me some. Got enough for another cup?"

Sarah stayed behind and borrowed Jim’s desktop computer while he and Gene went to the hospital. After she checked her email, she googled 'white tornado' and viewed the results. A couple of vids on YouTube later, she allowed herself a smile. "Huh," she said softly. "An all-purpose cleanser. Isn't that interesting."

The retrieval party came back sooner than she'd expected. She heard the door open and Jim's voice as the familiar thump of Greg's cane echoed through the quiet apartment. Sarah looked up to find him in the doorway. He glowered at her.

"You're still here," he said. His voice sounded rough and strained, but at least now he could speak. He looked much the worse for wear, but his bruises had begun to fade, and he wasn’t quite as pale. _Some improvement then_ , she thought, and was glad for him.

"Yes," she said, as Gene and Jim came in. "Where else would I be?" She closed the laptop and stood, aware she was still hungry.

"I can make some breakfast," Jim said. "Any requests?"

"Bourbon," Greg growled, and plopped down on the couch. He searched for the remote and found it on the end table, turned on the television and cranked up the volume on a Three Stooges short.

"That's one country heard from," Jim said wryly. "Anyone else?"

"Why don't we do scrambled eggs on toast and call it good?" Sarah said. "I'll help."

"Sounds okay to me," Gene said. "I'm headed down to the Wawa to grab a Sunday Times, anyone need anything?"

"If they've got a sale on sanity, buy everything they have," Jim said dryly. Gene saluted and headed out the door.

Breakfast was a relatively pleasant meal. Along with the paper Gene brought back a dozen doughnuts, none of which were bavarian creams. Sarah stole the _Book Review_ from Gene when he wasn't looking. Jim added honey and ginger marmalade to the makeshift buffet and steeped two cups of decaf tea for Sarah and Greg. Gene and Jim debated making a run to Manhattan to buy discount tickets for a play. Greg ignored the convivial atmosphere, clicked through channels with single-minded determination. After a few minutes of his silence Sarah had had enough. She sat next to Greg and put her tea on the coffee table, stretched her arms above her head, then snuggled into the couch.

"Showing off your boobs," Greg said.

"Curses, foiled again," Sarah said. "You gonna hog that blipper for the rest of your life or what?"

Greg transferred the remote to the hand farthest away from her. Sarah turned her head to look at him. "What's wrong?"

"Cards." He scowled at the tv screen.

"Ah. This is about the reader I sent up last night with your Halloween goodies," she said, and grinned. "Perceptive, isn't she?"

"Bullshit," Greg said, and coughed. When she picked up her tea and offered it he refused, and pushed it away so the liquid slopped into the saucer and onto her sweatshirt.

"Why do you say that?" she asked, and contemplated the stain on her clothing with resignation.

"Total woo woo."

She chuckled. "You're a diagnostician, you use your intuition every day to figure out what's going on and yet you freak out over a few innocuous images from the collective unconscious? Tsk. So small-minded of you."

"It's _bullshit._ " He gave her a scornful look, then returned his attention to the television. Sarah stared at him in disbelief.

"You can't really believe that," she said. He didn't answer. "So you're the man of pure intellect, using reason and logic exclusively to diagnose your patients and live your life. What a load of malarkey." He ignored her. She went on. "How about intuitive insight? How about that hinky sense you get when something doesn't fit? There must be times when you have an epiphany about someone's illness. You take on patients with diseases no one else can figure out. Logic alone won't always get you a diagnosis."

Greg pushed up from the couch and limped toward the kitchen, his shoulders hunched. Sarah watched him go. She frowned a little, and put her new knowledge on the back burner to simmer. Her intuition would keep an eye on the pot while she added more ingredients to the stew over time.

The rest of the day passed all too quickly. It was close to sunset by the time Gene tossed his overnight bag into the car and turned to Sarah. His lean arms enfolded her. They held each other for a few moments. She enjoyed the feel of his lean body pressed to hers, the soft rasp of his shirt against her cheek and his warm male scent beneath the clean cotton fabric.

"I'm worried about you staying here all week," Gene said after a time. "Are you sure you'll be all right?"

"I'll be fine," Sarah said. "You're in Kansas City till Thursday, right?"

"Yes. Home on Friday. I cleared the weekend." He smiled down at her.

"Home on Friday for me too," she said, and returned his smile. "Maybe we should celebrate."

"What did you have in mind?"

"Why don't we go to the farm and stack some firewood?" She walked a pair of fingers up his chest. "A cord or two would be . . . nice."

His eyebrows rose. "That's a helluva load of wood. So to speak."

"Why, yes it is," she said. "So to speak. We'll be working on it all weekend."

"Well, I think that could be arranged." He put a finger under her chin and lifted her face to his. They kissed, lingered in the chill damp twilight, unwilling to let each other go.

"Love you," Sarah said softly when the kiss ended. "Call me when you get home, okay?"

"Love you back." He let her go with reluctance. "Will do. See you in a few days."

She watched him drive off and wished she felt as confident as she'd sounded. This would be a difficult week, she knew it. But another part of her relished the challenge ahead. After a last wave she turned and went back into the apartment house, head bent against the chill wind.

 


	9. Chapter 9

_November 2nd_

The new day is bright and relentlessly sunny. Greg squints at the cheerful light as it streams in the window. He pulls the blinds, then rolls onto his back and glances at the clock—ten a.m. With a groan he puts his arm across his eyes. For him it's practically the crack of dawn; he doesn't get up much before noon nowadays. What's the point? It's not like he's got anything to occupy his mind.

Outside his closed door he hears someone move around the apartment. He knows it's Sarah; Wilson has long since gone to work. She's been up for some time—out for an hour or so on her daily power walk around the neighborhood, then back to grab a quick shower and conversation with Wilson in the kitchen before the Enabler heads out. Then she does . . . whatever it is psychologists do on their days off. Watch porn vids 'for research purposes only', or write papers about how many angels dance on their patients pinheads.

After a while the smell of fried onions drifts into his room. He stirs as his empty belly rumbles. Five minutes later he sits up, yawns, drags his reluctant flesh out of bed and shambles to the door.

When Greg enters the kitchen, he finds Sarah stands at the stove, one of Wilson's blue aprons wrapped around her slender frame, her curls pulled back in a ponytail. She stirs an enormous pile of chopped vegetables in a cast-iron skillet. Next to the pan is a stockpot with what looks like the chicken carcass from last night's dinner, simmered with a couple of bay leaves.

"Good morning." Sarah gives him a quick smile. He ignores her and goes to the fridge. He's still on soft foods, but he's bored as hell with pudding, jello, milkshakes and mashed potatoes. He sees leftover pizza stored in a plastic bag—double sauce with garlic, pepperoni, sausage, hot peppers. He grabs the slices and a bottle of Yuengling and heads off to the living room to watch some tv.

The first slice doesn't give him any trouble, mainly because he wolfs it. By the second bite of the next slice however, his sore throat burns with acid reflux. It gets worse when he tries the beer. He heads back into the kitchen to look for some milk, and finds Sarah with a glass already poured and ready. She hands it to him without comment. He glugs half of it down in two painful swallows, gives a huge belch and relaxes as the fire recedes.

"Not gonna lecture me?" he says after he finishes the milk. His voice is still hoarse; he hates the sound of it. Sarah looks at him as she opens a drawer to find a utensil.

"No, but I'd like to wash the sheets on your bed later. Do you mind if I go in and—"

"Uh uh," he says. "I like 'em dirty."

She is silent a moment. "Okay," she says finally. Her tone is mild. She focuses her attention on the stockpot's contents, removes the carcass with a pair of slotted spoons. He watches as she sets the bones on a platter and gives the water a stir, then skims off some sludgy foam. When the stock is clear she picks up the skillet with the bottom of her apron serving as a pot holder, and carefully adds the sautéed vegetables to the pot.

"Would you take the leftover chicken out of the fridge for me please?" she says. He decides to oblige her and retrieves the big container of white and dark meat.

"Wilson usually makes it into salad." Greg snags the gallon of milk while the door is open. He pops the top and drinks out of the jug as Sarah starts to cut up the chicken into small chunks.

"I asked if I could use it," she says. "It'll be a good evening for soup and grilled cheese sandwiches." She scoops a handful of chicken into the stockpot. "Storm's coming."

He freezes. The words are straight out of his dream, and she doesn't know it, _can't_ know it because he didn't write it down in his description the other night. He stares at her while his belly gurgles.

"You're so sure," he says finally.

"I pay attention," she says. "The trees told me it's going to rain. They’re showing their silver. And the wind's changed direction. There's a nor'easter on the way."

"I just love that cornpone wisdom," he says. It's an open sneer, meant to hurt. "And what the hell does an Okie know about coastal storms, anyway."

She doesn't rise to the bait. "When you grow up in the country you learn how to read the signs. You see the underside of a tree's leaves show and know it means rain is on the way." She glances at him. "I've lived here for years, of course I know about nor'easters. You should understand that. You're the detail man."

"That's my _raison d'etre_ , you bet," he says, and burps loudly. The sausage and peppers make their presence known, but so far the milk's still in charge.

"What I don't understand," she says slowly, "is why someone so good with seeing the tiny pieces that make up the puzzle won't apply that skill to his own life."

Here it comes, he's expected this since she showed up: the Big Lecture. He stuffs the milk jug back in the fridge. "I can't _wait_ for the pearls of wisdom you're about to dispense," he says, and heads for the door.

"I'm here to help you," Sarah says, and dumps the last of the chicken into the pot. She opens the box of broth, pours some of it in, adds two big handfuls of egg noodles, stirs the whole thing and puts the lid on the pot. To his chagrin she follows him into the living room. He claims the couch and roots around for the remote to change the channel. Rachel Ray isn't exactly must-see tv.

"I'd like to talk about what happened," she says, and removes the apron. She picks up a dining table chair and places it in front of the television, sits down. She's too skinny to block much of the picture, but it's pointless to watch anything now with her there. Greg turns off the tv, tosses the remote to the other end of the couch and folds his arms.

"This is stupid," he says. "Wilson wants this, not me."

"It isn't stupid," she says. "It's important."

"You have to say that." He is a little startled when she laughs.

"Yeah, I do. Doesn't mean it isn't true, though." She looks at her hands. "Why did you approach that little girl the way you did?"

"I'm a pedophile. Watching Cuddy's big bouncy ass cheeks is just a cover. We're done now." He starts to get up from the couch.

"You could have explained to the girl's mother what you saw and convinced her to come into the clinic for an exam. You can be charming enough when it suits your purposes." Sarah looks at him now, her gaze intense. "Instead some part of you chose to scare the hell out of everyone in the waiting room."

He sinks back into the couch, and fights an absurd need to defend his actions. "I saw something wrong, I wanted an answer!" he snaps. "How other people deal—"

"You know full well this society is hyper-vigilant to the point of hysteria about child safety, especially when it comes to molestation."

"Yeah, that worked out well for you," he says. Sarah doesn't flinch.

"As it happens, we're not talkin’ about me. This is about why you chose a method of examination that resulted in a traumatized child and mother, not to mention you gettin’ tackled and choked half to death." She tilts her head. "Up for some speculation?"

"About what, as if I didn't know." He feels queasy. The word 'speculation' does not bode well.

"About why you deliberately got yourself beat up," she says. "You do that on a regular basis, Greg."

"It's a hazard of being the smartest person in the room," he says, and shifts as his insides give an ominous lurch.

"Plenty of smart people manage to avoid getting pummeled every day," Sarah says. "If you're that intelligent, how come you can't do it?"

"I've been hit all of two or three times in the last few years—"

“I’d say even once is too much, but this is not just about physical assaults and you know it." Sarah watches him closely. "You deliberately invite attack on all levels. I'd like to know why."

"It's not my fault if dumbasses like you are unable to comprehend my . . . my . . ." The nausea increases; saliva pools in his mouth, a sure sign his stomach is about to do a houseclean, haha, nice pun. He struggles to his feet and heads for the bathroom, barely makes it there in time to lose his breakfast. It is as nasty on the return as he knew it would be. He retches and dry-heaves and finally subsides while his insides tremble and hitch. At least he managed to puke in the toilet—well, mostly. He slides down the wall to the floor, presses his sore cheek to the tiled wall and closes his eyes. His throat feels like it's on fire; his leg hurts like a son of a bitch, and the rest of him isn't so great either. Every bruise makes its presence known.

A few moments later he hears Sarah come in. He waits for the 'I told you so', but she says nothing. She stands near him now.

"You'd feel better if you took a hot shower," she says after a time.

"Fuck off." His voice is barely there; all the healing accomplished in the last couple of days has been undone.

"No," she says. "No, I won't do that. But I'll start the water for you."

"Share," he says, unable to complete the sentence. She understands him though.

"I don't think so. You want a shower or not?" She does not sound amused, but neither is she upset or even resigned.

Somehow he struggles to his feet and starts to peel off his tee shirt. He opens his eyes to find Sarah with her back to him as she turns on the water. He drops his sweat bottoms so that he is clad only in his birthday suit. When she turns around he stands there, his gaze on hers. She doesn't look down at his scar, nor does she avoid it; it's plain she knows it's there, but to her it's just that—a scar. The contradictory side of his nature understands she sees him as he is, but he doesn't want that—he wants . . . what? Not sex—okay, he wouldn't _mind_  sex with her, but it's not his first priority, not even on his list, if he's honest. He's not really sure what he needs.

"Do you want some help?" she asks. He pushes past her in silence. It's stupid, but he feels humiliated somehow. It's tough to find his balance but he manages and steps in. The pleasantly hot water hits his skin. He leans into it and pulls the curtain closed.

When every pore has been thoroughly steam-cleaned and he's used up half of Wilson's body wash, Greg shuts off the water and gets out. A large bath towel waits for him on the edge of the sink. The bathroom has been cleaned up as well. But there are no clothes put out, and when he goes into the bedroom the sheets haven't been changed; she kept her word. He finds a clean sweatshirt and flannel bottoms, a thick pair of socks and gets dressed, then crawls onto the bed and pulls up a blanket. Despite the faint warmth of the sunshine as it filters in through the closed blinds, he shivers and curls in on himself under the thick soft folds. His mouth tastes like shit, he should have brushed his teeth, but he wasn't sure he could stand long enough to get the job done.

 _What the hell is wrong with me? This feels like shock, but why now, days later?_ He brings the blanket over his head and sinks slowly into a fitful sleep as his throat aches and burns, and his empty belly rumbles.


	10. Chapter 10

"You were lovers."

Sarah glanced up from her laptop screen. Greg stood in the doorway to the dining room. He was in clean clothes at least now—the inevitable jeans and tee shirt—but even though there was a crease on his cheek and he was a bit pale, he looked miles better than he had earlier that morning. _He slept hard. That's good. He hasn't gotten more than one or two consecutive hours of sleep since he left the hospital. He's awake enough to move the focus of the conversation from him to me, too. I'll take that as a good sign._ "Uh—there's just me here," she said out loud, and saved the notes she'd worked on. Greg limped to the table and sat in a chair opposite hers.

"You and Wilson," he said. His voice was rough and gravelly; the morning's events had pushed his healing back a day or so.

"Oh." She smiled a little. "Well, yeah." Greg gave her an expectant look. Sarah returned it with one of mock astonishment. "Hey, why not? He's a babe. In college he was a total hottie. Those big brown eyes, that sexy little stutter, those cheekbones and dimples . . . even then he knew how to get women, and take care of them too." She sat back, and remembered a handsome young man with a beautiful smile. "I couldn't wait to get my hands on him."

"Didn't marry him." Greg watched her closely. "Why not?"

"It would not have ended well," she said. "And that's all you get. If you want to find out more, ask me when Jim's here and can participate in the conversation."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Kiss-ass."

"Jim is my friend. He trusts me.” Greg gave her a sardonic look, and Sarah blushed. “I am trustworthy, though you have good reason not to believe me right now. Anyway, I respect Jim. I won't tell tales behind his back. You want more, ask both of us what happened." She sipped her tea.

"You found Goldman." Greg made it more of a statement than a question.

"Yup." She couldn't help but smile. "Yes indeed."

"Why marriage?"

"We wanted the commitment of the contract." Sarah's smile widened. "It's really great living with someone who's a friend, besides loving each other."

"That's like, so awesomely cool," he mocked, and gave her look of scornful amusement. "Wilson wasn't your bff?"

"Stop fishing," she said. "I'll just say this: Gene is the one. I knew it the moment I laid eyes on him. By the second date we both knew it. Ask him, he'll tell you. Eight years later, he's still the one."

" _Ew_ ," Greg said, plainly disgusted. Sarah laughed.

"It's fun, though."

"One person forever . . .  that's not fun." He frowned. "Delusional."

"Don't knock it till you've tried it," Sarah said. "It's not all sweetness and light. We fight, we disagree, we have problems. But both of us want to make it work, so it does." She kept her tone casual. "How about you? Hasn't there ever been anyone?"

"Nope." For the first time, his gaze skittered away from hers. "No thanks."

 _He's lying. Address the fundamental issue,_ that small clear voice within her said. _Do it now._ Without hesitation she obeyed her intuition.

"Why?" She kept her body language open, no crossed arms or legs.

"Like . . . only vanilla in a store full of flavors." He was uncomfortable with the question, she could see it in the way he fidgeted.

"Coward," she said. He glared at her.

"Realistic."

"Because you've decided no one could stand you for more than a day or two." She made it a neutral statement. Greg struggled to his feet. "Sit," Sarah said. He didn't obey right away, but he couldn't stand either; it was clear he was in pain. Slowly he sat, perched on the edge of the seat. _Ready to bolt,_ she thought. _But he's still here. For the moment._ "Can you truthfully tell me your actions are those of someone who believes he's worth real friendship and love? Would a person with an ounce of self-respect invite a gratuitous beatdown?"

"Happens all the time," Greg said. "You're naive."

"I'm sure it does," Sarah said. "However, I am not anything close to naïve. You know that." When his gaze strayed to her arm, she nodded. "Exactly. So consider this: pre-emptive strikes only make things worse. They become a vicious cycle. You believe people can't stand you; you act like an ass and people can't stand you, therefore you were right in the first place." She looked at her hands. "The fact that you have a good friend in Jim should tell you your argument is false and your logic faulty."

" _Know_ people can't stand me."

"You don't give them a chance to find out one way or the other. You decide for them." She jumped when Greg slammed his hand on the tabletop.

"Enough!" His fingers flexed, curled into a fist. "Just—enough." He rose to his feet and limped away to the living room. Sarah took a deep breath and followed. When she entered the room he turned to her. He was truly angry, his eyes blazing.

"Why are you so upset?" she asked. He took a step closer.

"Not upset. _Pissed off_ ," he snarled. "You don't get it!"

"What don't I get?" She sat on the arm of the couch. "Explain it to me."

Greg lowered his head. "No."

"This is important." She dared to push him a little more. "I can't help you if—"

"I DON'T WANT HELP!" His ragged voice broke into a hoarse shout. He grabbed a cushion from the couch and hurled it across the room. "Wilson forced this on me by calling you in—I didn't ask for you! Leave me alone!"

"I don't believe you." Sarah refused to be intimidated. "You spent a lot of time and energy pushing me away after I got too close to the truth at the farm, and you're doing the same thing now. I don't think you'd bother if some part of you didn't realize you truly need help. So answer me. What don't I get?"

She fully expected him to take off for the bedroom. Instead he stood there and glowered at her.

"Won't leave me alone, will you?" he said after a time.

"Nope." She kept her gaze on him and waited.

"Forget it. You charge double out of office."

"What don't I understand?" She refused to acknowledge the deflection. Greg sat on the couch, and chose the end opposite hers. He was silent a long time. Sarah said nothing.

"When I was little—" He stopped. "This is pointless."

"How did other people treat you as a child?" Sarah asked quietly.

"Got beat up a lot." His shoulders hunched. "I'd say something . . . do something . . ."

"Can you give me an example?"

He sighed. "Promise you'll go if I do."

"No promises," she said.

" _Fuck."_ He picked up another cushion, stared at it. "In first grade . . ." He fell silent for a few moments. "Forget it."

"Stay with it," she said. "Tell me."

"No," He tossed the cushion aside. "Doesn't matter."

"Yes it does," Sarah said. "In first grade . . ."

He coughed. "Already had a rap sheet."

"Rap sheet?" She frowned.

"Reputation." He coughed again and sat back; he looked winded now. Sarah rose, went into the kitchen and came back with a glass of ice water. She handed it to him and returned to her perch on the arm of the couch.

"Take your time," she said as he sipped the water. "So at the age of five everyone had you pegged as a troublemaker." He nodded. "Why?"

Greg wedged his body into the corner of the couch and massaged his thigh. "I was bad."

"Bad in what way?"

He made an irritable gesture. "Just . . . bad."

"Well, are we talking five year old bad, or were you possessed?" Sarah kept her tone matter of fact. "My grandma always said I was the devil's spawn."

"She was right." Greg glared at her, but she could tell his heart wasn't in it. "'Possessed'. . .that works." He took a deep breath. "I . . . _saw_ . . . things other people didn't. Couldn't." He barked out a laugh and coughed. "Made the mistake of talking about it."

"Can you describe what you experienced?" Sarah dared to move to a chair opposite the couch. She kept her movements slow and calm, afraid she'd lose him if she so much as blinked.

"Like LSD," he said. He wrapped his arms around his middle. "Hallucinations disguised as enhanced perception. I'd look at a drop of water and see . . . light." He pushed deeper into the couch. "I'd hear extra notes in music—didn't know about harmonic overtones then, just heard them. But I heard whole registers of them. And when people talked, I'd—I—" He ground to a halt, coughed, drank some water.

"You heard other voices," Sarah said. She was careful to keep her exhilaration hidden. Greg flinched.

"This is _stupid_.”

"No," Sarah said. "No, it's not. What else did you sense?"

"What difference does it make? It was all in my head!" He passed a hand over his face.

She hesitated, not sure if she should share experiences. _What the hell,_ she thought. _It feels right to say it._ "When I was eight, I had this thing happen."

"You had a lot of things happen," Greg said.

"No, not—not the abuse." She pulled up the memory. "I was in the back yard one night, watching the stars. It was a beautiful spring night, no moon, and very clear." She remembered the soft warm wind scented with the smell of freshly turned earth, the feel of new grass against her skin. "The air was so clear I could see each star's color. Some were orange-red, some yellow, and there were a few blue-white ones, like the most beautiful diamonds."

Greg tilted his head a bit, his expression wry. "Can't see that with the naked eye."

"I could, somehow. I looked up some of them later in a book on astronomy, and they were all the same colors I saw. But that's not the point of this story." She paused. "As I was lying there with the horizon stretched out on either side, my perspective began to change. Suddenly I was very, very small, just a mere speck riding on this big ball of rock and water with fire at its core, covered by the thinnest breath of atmosphere enclosing everything, like the moisture on the skin of a grape. Everything was so fragile, so ephemeral it was terrifying. But it was also . . . amazing." She felt a distant echo of that wild fear and excitement, as she always did when she viewed this particular memory. "I dug my fingers into the sod to hang on. At any moment, everything would go careening off into space, including me." She stopped, then went on. "When I dared to look up at the sky again, I could see us—all of us, the planet, everything--hurtling into the void. We weren't motionless or stationary, we were flying into a universe full of dangers and wonder, just passengers along for the ride like fleas on a dog, and equally as oblivious to what was happening." She laughed a little. "Didn't stargaze for a long time after that."

Silence fell for a time. Finally Greg spoke. "Get to the point." He put a double load of sarcasm into that single word. Sarah took a deep breath. What she was about to say wouldn't sit well with him.

"I believe you have an ability that follows pathways other than rational thought--something you had to hide or cover up at a very young age, probably because the adults around you couldn't or wouldn't accept it. That rejection and criticism created an overemphasis on linear thinking and logical reasoning. But you still use those pathways subconsciously. They're an integral part of you, of your process."

"Projection." He got to his feet. "Right brain's useless."

"You know your science far better than that," she said quietly. "It's not so much a matter of right brain-left brain as it is the three brains layered within each other—limbic, mammalian, neocortex. We know now that vision at least is routed through those first two sections on its way to the neocortex, so that everything we see is filtered through some very old areas concerned primarily with survival and basic emotions. Couldn’t it be possible that one of the more ancient brains has some sort of latent ability, using all the senses to create an intuitive, heightened perception of the environment and others? It would have been a useful tool in a dangerous world. Nothing woo-woo about that."

"You're talking ESP," Greg said after a tense silence.

"In the pure meaning of the term, yes." Sarah nodded. "Five senses working as a group to create extra-sensory perception, or a sixth sense. I've worked with enough patients to see that some of them appear to have this ability. It's usually the ones who endured a great deal of stress during childhood and youth who have the strongest perception."

"Environmental response," Greg said. He drank the last of the water.

"Yes, exactly. I believe that high, unrelenting levels of anxiety or abuse of any kind can activate this ability, although a few people seem to just have it naturally."

"Pointless." He shook his head and winced. "Don't need it."

"But it's still part of you," she said gently. "The dreams you've had—"

"Waste of time!" He limped off to the bedroom. Sarah watched him retreat. She'd breached the subject and he'd responded just a little, enough to show her where she needed to go next. _Not quite a success nor a failure,_ she thought as she got up to check the soup. _But it's progress all the same._

 


	11. Chapter 11

_November 3rd_

_(He stands in the kitchen of his apartment on Baker street. There’s a game on in the other room, and he wants a cold beer. He opens the fridge, takes a bottle in hand, only to find he holds nothing. There is no beer—and then no fridge, no kitchen, no apartment. He lies naked in a pile of dead leaves on a bitterly cold night, with only the dead stars overhead for company, and no one knows or cares that he is here—_

_“None of it’s real,” Amber whispers in his ear. “You can’t trust any of them, not even Wilson. You’re better off on your own. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”)_

Greg wakes from the dream on a gasp; his hands reach for something, anything to anchor him to reality. The first thing he touches is the couch under him. He grabs onto it and buries his face in the pillow despite the pain it causes. He can feel fabric on his skin, smell the perfume of the dryer sheet used to soften it; he can sense walls, floor, a ceiling. It’s a room, which means he’s not left outside or abandoned to the elements.

Slowly he sits up, pulls away from the dream into wakefulness. He’s stiff and sore, and his leg pain screams at him for meds and moist heat. He gradually manages to stand up, grabs his cane, and moves to the door, teeth gritted.

An hour later he emerges from the bathroom, clean, dressed and a bit more limber from a long hot shower. It's another grey day—well, afternoon actually, cool and damp and dreary: good weather to watch porn or sports—there's never a bad time to do that, as far as he’s concerned--and grab some lunch. He has graduated from soft foods to just about anything he wants now, but after Tuesday's miserable experience he'll play it safe and stick with bland stuff a little longer.

He passes the living room and spies Sarah. She sits on the couch, leans forward with her head bowed. Her arms rest on her thighs, hands clasped around her knees. It is not a relaxed pose. In front of her on the coffee table is her cell phone. Greg limps into the room.

"Good afternoon, Doctor Goldman," he says with the best fake congeniality he can muster. Inside he's gleeful. It looks as if his plan has worked already—a day or so ahead of schedule, but that just means he gets to savor his revenge a bit longer.

"My . . . my boss just called." Sarah's voice is muffled, but even so Greg can tell she's in shock.

"Interesting. You're needed to talk a patient out of committing suicide by paper clip, or one of your regulars ran out of crayons. That's my guess, anyway." He plops onto the arm of the couch and tries to look concerned. "Ellie likes the purple ones. She says they taste like blackberries."

"Someone. . ." Sarah pauses. "Someone sent screencaps of my journal entries to every doctor on the staff, including Director Monaghan."

"Oh my goodness," he says in the mildest of voices. "That's—that’s just . . . _awful_."

She sighs a little. "How did you do it?"

"You're accusing _me . . ._ " He puts a lot of wounded innocence into the question. "Well, if I were the guilty party—hypothetically speaking, of course—I would have used Wilson's scanner while you and the Enabler were out shopping yesterday evening. Then I would have cracked the password on your laptop, gotten the pertinent addys and sent out the copies. But that's all guesswork on my part," he adds. Sarah nods. Slowly she sits up. Her face is pale, her eyes dark and distant. She retrieves the cell phone, gets to her feet. He watches her, all a-quiver with anticipation. If he is correct, she is about to erupt in a display that will make Krakatau look like a wet sparkler. In silence she passes into the dining room. After a moment he follows her to find she packs freshly laundered clothes into an overnight bag. Her movements are mechanical, without any real purpose beyond the task at hand. A little of Greg’s delight fades. He’d expected she would take the news hard, but this . . . this is something of an over-reaction.

"Going somewhere?" She doesn't answer, just continues to stuff shirts and jeans into the case, heedless of wrinkles. "So, you can dish it out but you can't take it. Always figured you were a closet hypocrite."

She turns from the case and looks at him for the first time. To his surprise she's not furious or even angry. It’s quite clear she’s deeply wounded, in pain. Even worse, there is a sad resignation in her expression, as if she has expected something like this to happen. Greg stares at her, unable to push away a profound guilt though he tries to. His failure makes him angry. She’s induced a useless emotion, not the enjoyment he’d planned on.

“ _Why?_ ” she says. He can barely hear her. “Why did you do this?”

"It's just a taste of your own medicine," he says, and does his best to savor the words. He's looked forward to this moment, because he knows it will drive her away for good. Her lack of response won’t spoil his win.

For several moments she stands there; then with a visible effort she turns back to her task, finishes and closes the case, heads back into the living room. When Greg follows her it is to find her with her phone and charger in hand. She puts them in her bag and takes her jacket out of the closet by the door.

"No wonder you have such a great reputation as a therapist." He can't resist the temptation to needle her. "Stick with the easy ones, bail on the tough ones. It's a perfect solution. I knew I was right to call you on it before."

“Maybe . . . maybe you’re right.” She shrugs on the jacket and picks up her stuff, goes out into the hall and closes the door behind her. She won't look at him, but he has the impression she holds back tears. He won't let that affect his enjoyment of the situation, though.

"You forgot your shampoo!" he calls through the door. There is no response, only the sound of her footsteps, slow and deliberate, as she walks away.

The apartment is quiet after her departure. Greg moves around the bland rooms, restless and dissatisfied. He’d planned to put his feet up and watch whatever’s available on one of the premium channels he’s convinced Wilson he needs. Now however, his heart isn’t in it, and it’s not his fault. An untrustworthy liar over-reacted to a prank, and he’s supposed to feel bad for her. She has no idea how he’d felt when he learned she’d given his journal to his team to read. Of course he’d put as little of his personal feelings into that stupid prank as possible, because he’d known she would do exactly what she did . . . but it was still a betrayal, made worse because she’d tried to convince him she wouldn’t do it. Good thing he knows all too well that no one can be trusted, with no exceptions.

Wilson comes home at his usual time, about seventeen minutes after five. He takes the same route to and from work every day, and his assistant makes sure he doesn’t spend a single moment over his allotted time. If there’s a secret back door into the truth about Wilson’s compassion and generosity, Greg knows he’s found it in that unvaried routine. Of course there are times when the illustrious Head of Oncology stays late or comes in early, but those occasions are not as numerous as Wilson lets people believe. Not that Greg faults him for it; the man’s paid a salary based on forty hours, he won’t get overtime for the forty-first. 

“Where’s Sarah?” is the first thing Wilson says. Greg looks at him, gives a tiny shrug of his shoulders. "You mean she . . . just left?" That earns him a suspicious look. "She didn't leave a message?"

“Hello to you too,” Greg says. “How was your day, honey?”

Wilson waves his hand. “Just answer the question for once.”

"Okay. No message," Greg says truthfully. "Just packed her stuff and walked out."

"What did you—" Wilson stops when his phone rings. He answers it, stands there and listens. After a few moments his head bows and his hand rests on his hip as his brow furrows. Whatever he’s heard doesn’t make him happy. Greg chooses another enormous spoonful of ice cream and takes a big bite. It’s Wilson’s favorite, vanilla bean with caramel.

"Yeah," he says. "Okay . . . goddammit." He shoots Greg a baffled look. "Okay. I'll call you later. Okay. Bye."

"Bad news?" Greg asks as Wilson ends the call.

"As if you didn't know!" Wilson snaps. "What on _earth_ possessed you to destroy her privacy like that?"

"Because no one gives a fuck about  _my_ privacy," Greg shoots back. "She showed my journal to the entire team without asking!"

"You probably set things up so she had no choice! And anyway, she was trying to help you!" Wilson looks like he's about to explode. "You—you might have considered your journal to be a joke, but hers was truthful and now—" He throws his arms out wide—"every doctor at Mayfield knows about the--the abuse, the suicide attempts--everything!"

Greg shrugs. "She has a week or two of weird looks and stupid jokes ahead. She'll survive."

Wilson's eyes widen. He looks at Greg as if he’s just pooped on the carpet. "Oh my god," he says softly. "I knew you were a heartless bastard, but this really takes the cake."

"What are you talking about?" Greg says, annoyed by this fresh display of self-righteousness.

"Oh, come on House! Don't tell me you didn't want this—" Wilson starts, but is interrupted by another phone call. This one is longer, and he is silent for most of it. When he hangs up he's got his 'I told you so' look on.

"That was Gene," he says. "He wants a conference with Will set up for tomorrow."

"Good," Greg says. "Maybe we'll finally get things scheduled."

"I don't think so," Wilson says. He is looking at the tabletop, brows lowered—'I told you so' jacked up to 'you are such an ignorant ass'.

" _Now_ what the hell are you talking about?" Greg says, annoyed at having to unravel information strand by strand. "I pulled a prank to even the score with my shrink. Apparently political correctness finally become the default position of all ball-less wonders."

Wilson is silent for a few moments. "It isn't just you getting even," he says finally.

"Well what the hell IS it then?" Greg all but shouts the question. Wilson doesn't answer for a few moments. When he does speak at last, it's in a voice so quiet Greg has to strain to hear him.

"Sarah's been fired."

At first he doesn’t understand what Wilson’s said. The words don’t really mean anything. Greg stares at the other man, and feels as if he stands in an icy back yard under a clear, bitter sky.

“They wouldn’t do that,” he says after a moment or two. “They—they can’t—“

“They can and they did.” Wilson stares at him. “She tried to help you, and she made a mistake because you pushed her into it. And you decided that was enough grounds to destroy her career.”

“No, that’s—that’s not what I—“ Greg puts his hand on the back of the couch, grips it to remind himself this isn't an hallucination, or at least he doesn’t think it is. “I—didn’t—“

“After this weekend you’re going back to Baker street. What you do after that—“ Wilson turns away. “That’s on you. I’m going out for dinner.” He grabs his jacket and keys, and leaves. The slam of the door makes Greg jump. He stares at the entryway for a long time. After a while he limps to the couch, sits down, and watches the tv screen, but sees only a blank, empty yard, and darkness.


	12. Chapter 12

_November 4th_

"This is total bullshit," House said for the fifth time.

"Do you think if you keep saying that it'll turn into the truth?" Wilson tasted his cold coffee and winced. Their waitress hadn't been back for a good half hour, though the restaurant wasn't crowded and there seemed to be plenty of servers to take care of the other customers. He was fairly sure her disappearance had more to do with House's surly attitude than anything else. He’d spent the first fifteen minutes in loud criticism of the menu choices, the cleanliness of the water glasses and silverware, and the waitress's hair style, before they'd even ordered dinner. _No doubt someone's gonna spit in my spaghetti carbonara,_ Wilson thought, and suppressed a shudder. Appetite much diminished, he pushed his cup away as Gene and Will joined them in the booth.

"About time you two showed up," House said. "My shrink isn't with you."

"Doctor Goldman has decided not to attend," Gene said. Wilson chanced a look at him. The other man wore an impassive expression, but his gaze was ice-cold. It took an enormous amount of provocation to get Gene really angry; he was a quiet and laid-back guy by nature. Still, House had managed it. No surprises there; when House put his mind to it, he could destroy anyone’s composure.

"A coward to the end," House said, and offered a slight smile. Gene leaned forward. It was a simple act, but the intent behind it was unmistakable.

"That is enough out of you," he said quietly. House stared at him, then dropped his gaze. For just a moment he looked scared.

"Someone always takes a good joke too seriously. That’s not my fault," he said, and glanced up at the waitress as she came to the table, pad in hand. "I hope you don't expect a tip, because Wilson doesn't reward shitty service."

Wilson gave a silent groan. "Could we get a fresh round of coffees, please?" he asked aloud, and ignored House to give the woman his best warm smile. "I'm sure the new guys will be ready to order when you come back, ma’am."

The woman looked at him, then at House, then back at him with one brow raised. "Okay," she said, and departed.

"Excellent use of Second-Best Charming Smile. So you must have a decision by now." House that comment at Doctor Reynard. Will shrugged off his jacket and loosened his tie.

"Dude, first things first. I'm starving." He took a menu from the holder, gave it a cursory once-over, put it back. "I was stuck in meetings all day and the only thing I had with me was curry-flavored pepitas." He shook his head. "Those things make you pee like a friggin' racehorse. Your breath smells like crap too. I ate a whole tin of someone else's Altoids trying to keep from killing people every time I talked."

"Fascinating," House said. His tone indicated otherwise. "Your reluctance to address the issue at hand means you have something to tell me I won't like."

Any further conversation was forestalled by the return of the waitress with a tray of fresh cups and a full coffeepot. Orders were placed, but there was no reduction of tension. Wilson stirred sugar into his cup and prayed the meeting wouldn't end in bloodshed. Gene looked as if he was ready to rip off Greg’s head and stuff it in his coffee cup.

"Okay," Will said after the silence had gone on too long, "here's how it goes down. Gene and I both agree you reneged on the original agreement—"

"—which was total bullshit from the get-go!" House snapped. "Forcing your client into outpatient therapy was never going to work!"

"—and so we feel you're not a good candidate for the kind of surgery we're looking at," Will finished, unperturbed. "Come on, man. You have to know the addiction plays into this to a large degree. You've started recovery but you haven't addressed any of the issues that created the problem in the first place." He dumped a fourth creamer into his coffee, gave it a cursory stir and took a huge swallow. "Until you do, you're a bad risk."

"You don't know jack about risk, since you're probably still a cherry virgin with a stack of porn on your bedside stand," House said. "Such a safe little existence."

"I have a girlfriend," Will said. He looked both annoyed and amused.

Gene leveled a direct stare at House. "If you want us to work with you on the surgery and pain management, you have to do thirty days of intensive recovery therapy beforehand with evidence you're really serious about recovery. Until you do, there's no plan. End of discussion."

"Empty threat. I'll just find someone else," House said.

"You can go to every neurosurgeon on the planet and have them rewire you any way they please, and the result will be the same," Gene said. "You want to be in pain, so you'll find a way to be in pain." He moved out of the booth and stood. "If you decide to do as we've asked, give Will a call."

"You haven't told us how your little wifey's doing." House's tone was pure provocation. "No doubt she has strong opinions about this whole idea."

"She's agonizing over having damaged your chances at finding healing," Gene said quietly. "For all the good it'll do, she asked me to tell you she's sorry she betrayed your trust, and she understands why you did what you did." He stared at House. “She’s speaking for herself, not me. She tried to help you, and you screwed her over.”

“She lied to me about the journal!” House said loudly.

“If you’re looking for someone to blame, I’m the one who encouraged her to use your team,” Gene replied without hesitation. “She tried everything else she knew before that, but you set her up to fail anyway.”

"Oooh, high score on the sincerity, too bad it's such an obvious line of utter shit," House said. He glared at Gene. "But you'd know all about that, wouldn't you? I bet you both have had plenty of practice giving great lip service."

Gene zipped his jacket closed, reached into his back jeans pocket and took out his wallet. He withdrew a twenty and put it on the table. "The money's for the coffee and tip," he said to Wilson, and turned to face House. "You try to hurt my woman again, you get a visit from me," he said, and left. They watched him go. Wilson imagined Sarah at home curled in on herself, isolated and in pain. He knew all too well she tended to withdraw during difficult situations; in that way she and House were somewhat similar. _Silent running,_ he thought, and hoped Gene was able to cope and offer comfort.

The waitress came to the booth with their orders; she took Gene’s money, slapped down the platters and sped off, clearly not thrilled with their disruptive presence. Wilson pushed the food around his plate, his appetite completely gone now. He was secretly pleased to see House struggled to eat as well, a sure sign Gene's words had gotten to him despite his bravado. Will devoured everything he’d ordered and stole most of the contents of the bread basket. He dispatched each roll in two bites.

"The way I see it," he said as he munched, "your best bet is to apologize to Doctor Goldman and work with her. Then we can concentrate on the physical aspect, and you can return to work and get your license back."

"The way _I_ see it, you're a total moron and your opinions are useless," House growled. Will shrugged.

"Suit yourself," he said. "But if you're as smart as everyone says you are, you know we're right."

 _He knows,_ Wilson thought. _But getting him to admit it, now there's the rub._ He massaged his temple as the ache there grew stronger. _The holidays are coming up too. This will be an even worse Christmas than the one where Tritter harassed everyone in sight._ His stomach tightened at the memory. _If we can just get to January first without the first documented case of spontaneous human combustion, maybe there's a chance . . ._

“Okay, gotta go,” Will said, and tossed down his napkin. He took out his wallet and dumped several twenties on the table. “Dinner’s on me. I’ll be in touch.” He glanced at House. “You need to get it together, man,” he said quietly, and left them. House glared at the younger man and took the money. Wilson opened his mouth to tell him to put it back, and found he really couldn’t be bothered. To bitch him out for being a cheapskate would only make matters worse.

"Are you gonna sit there all night drooling into your cold pasta, or can we get the fuck out of here?" House's words penetrated Wilson's unpleasant musings. He stared at the congealed mess on his plate and knew it was a perfect symbol for the current state of his personal life. With a sigh he signaled the waitress and dug for his wallet. _So much for hope. All this agita is making work look better and better—god, what a horrible thing to think. Well, we'll see what happens. Something has to change, and who says it has to be for the worse? Miracles can happen, even to grouchy old misanthropes. I have to believe that, or what's the point in all this?_

He put two twenties on the table for a tip. “Leave it there,” he snapped at House, and waited until the other man had walked away before he left the area.

The ride home was silent. Wilson drove through the rain-slick streets and tried not to think about the evening's events. They were almost at the apartment complex when House said 'You think they're right."

"I think you could do a lot worse than accept their terms," he said, and tried to keep his tone neutral.

"It figures you'd side with your ex," House said. Wilson drew in a startled breath.

"What?"

"She told me all about it," House said. He sounded smug, almost gleeful. "She was warm for your form back in college, but it didn't work out . . . somehow that sounds familiar."

"I . . . we . . ." _There's no way, no WAY she told him everything. It's an educated guess._ "You're putting this together from something she said. I know she didn't tell you anything. Sarah wouldn't do that."

House snickered. "Your gullibility is amazing. She betrayed my trust, so of course she'd trash yours too. Maybe you don't know her as well as you think you do. Maybe she still wants you and is using the situation to tear off a piece without hubby knowing."

Wilson pulled the car over to the side of the street. He ignored a horn blast from the driver directly behind him. "I know her well enough to understand you're deliberately trying to hurt both her and me now." Anger made him terse. "What is it with you?"

"I know when someone's playing me," House said. "So I play them right back. I don't and never did fit into your cozy little view of how people should behave. Of course you want me to see your old girlfriend and learn how to fake it along with the rest of the hypocrites, including you."

"I want to see you free from pain," Wilson said. His hands tightened on the steering wheel. He wished it was House's throat, and not for the first time. "That's a bad thing?"

"Life is pain," House snapped. "You try to get rid of it, more comes along. There's no fucking point in denying the truth."

There was nothing to say to that. Eventually Wilson pulled back into the flow of traffic and took them home.

Later, he lay in his warm bed and spoke into the darkness,  a soft whisper to keep his words in the room. "I don't know what will happen, but something has to change. I wish you were here, love. You'd know how to get to him, to move past his defenses." He closed his eyes and pushed away anger, and fear. "Something has to change," he said again, and waited for the escape a few hours of sleep would bring.

 


End file.
